


Chasing Shadows

by marquis



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FAHC, Fake AH Crew, M/M, and the general violence/bloodshed associated with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis/pseuds/marquis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoff Ramsey sits back, taking a deep drag off of his cigar. He watches Miles through the smoke and strokes at his moustache. “Detective, are you telling me you’re willing to risk your reputation, your own goddamn life, to get one of your buddies back?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Miles responds, no hesitation. “I’d do anything.”</p><p>Someone starts to laugh. It’s this low, throaty sound; Miles realizes after a beat that it’s coming from the Mad King himself.</p><p>“Boss,” he says, “I think Striker has Risinger.”</p><p>--</p><p>Miles Luna is a cop in the Los Santos PD. When the local investigative reporter, Jon Risinger, goes missing, Miles is fully prepared to raise hell to find him - even if it means working with the notorious criminals of the Fake AH Crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> There is no in-depth description of violence in this fic so I have rated it Teen & Up. Do be aware, however, that various cronies and lackeys are killed via a knife, a grenade, and a sniper rifle. As well as maybe some other things. There is no description of torture or anything but it is implied that perhaps torture has happened. Violence in this fic is vague as shit because gore makes me squeamish but, as it is an FAHC fic, there should probably be at least a little bit of blood, right? So there is. Vaguely.
> 
> Title is absolutely 100% subject to change.

The bar is seedy as fuck. Miles has been there before, usually to arrest some sad-sack dealer with questionable product. He knows there’s more to it than meets the eye; the blueprints list three rooms tucked behind the left wall, and there have probably been renovations and additions since then. God knows the area gets blown up enough to hide that sort of shit.

Miles orders a whiskey and moves to the back corner, where faded room dividers block the view of its occupants. That spot is always deserted by the time Miles comes inside; today, he can see flickering candlelight. Cigar smoke floats into the air from inside its borders.

The surrounding tables are empty. Even newcomers know to avoid that table, apparently, but Miles doesn’t have the same amount of self-preservation. His gun is tucked away with the safety on, his badge is back at home, and his phone is in the car. The last time he did something this stupid, he had a lot more alcohol in him.

He takes a sip of his whiskey, just in case, and pushes back one of the dividers.

There’s a pistol at his temple before he even takes in the scene. He makes a conscious effort not to reach for his own gun, instead holding his hands out in front of him. “Whoa, fellas, let’s not be rash.”

“Detective Luna,” comes a voice, muffled and deep. Miles turns his head to the side. Holding the gun is the Vagabond, mask on and paint-rimmed eyes glaring. “What brings you to our neighborhood?”

“Just looking for a chat,” Miles insists. He doesn’t move anything but his head, fully aware he wouldn’t stand a chance if a fight broke out. “I need some information, and your crew is the best place to get it.”

“What kind of information?” That’s Ramsey in the booth, with his fingers wrapped around a cigar. “We don’t just help anyone.”

“I’m looking to track down a rival of yours.” Miles’ shoulders are tense as they’ve ever been, but he’s counting the fact that he doesn’t have a bullet in his brain as a pretty good sign here. “I need information on the Briggstown Kings. Specifically, I need a location.”

The Vagabond takes a step away but his gun doesn’t move. “Want me to check him, Geoff?”

He smiles, a flash of teeth in the shadow. “No, buddy, I think we’re okay. You have a clear shot if we need it.” Geoff waves the cigar toward the empty booth opposite him. “Go ahead and take a seat. Let’s talk, detective.”

The Vagabond slides into his seat first, gun steady. Miles follows him with a little more caution, placing his whiskey down on the table. Two glasses of something clear are already there; Miles wonders absently how the Vagabond has been drinking. Has he kept the mask on the whole time, or is it only because they’ve got company?

“Now I just want to make this clear,” Ramsey says, leaning forward. “I don’t work with cops. So either this is off the record, or we’re done here. If anyone finds out about this little chat, I’m gonna have my good friend here put a bullet in your pretty head.”

Miles nods. “Right, yeah, of course,” he agrees. “Believe me, I’d prefer no one find out I was here at all.”

“Why?” the Vagabond asks. His voice rattles Miles to his core. “Do we embarrass you?”

“Not at all!” he says, immediately backtracking. It takes a minute to catch the crinkle at the corner of his eyes under the mask, the hint of a smile.

“You know, Luna,” Ramsey says, “I’m not convinced. Why should I help you? The Kings have no claim here. They don’t fuck with us, we don’t fuck with them.”

This part will be a little tricky. There have been rumors, tips from other cons on how to get Ramsey’s help when things get tough. It isn’t foolproof, but it’s all he has to go on. Miles leans forward and places his elbows on the table.

“You’ve got your crew here, and you don’t want to start shit. I get that,” he says. “But I hear you’d do anything to protect one of your own. And that’s exactly what I’m here trying to do.”

“Are you trying to tell me Striker and his crew have one of our guys?” Ramsey laughs. “I hate to break it to you, kid, but we just did a headcount this morning and none of ours are missing today.”

Miles shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.” He scrubs his hands over his face, feeling the burn of the Vagabond’s stare like needles against his skin. “The Briggstown Kings, they – they’ve got one of mine.”

Geoff Ramsey sits back, taking a deep drag off of his cigar. He watches Miles through the smoke and strokes at his moustache. “Detective, are you telling me you’re willing to risk your reputation, your own goddamn life, to get one of your buddies back?”

“Absolutely,” Miles responds, no hesitation. “I’d do anything.”

Someone starts to laugh. It’s this low, throaty sound; Miles realizes after a beat that it’s coming from the Mad King himself.

“Boss,” he says, “I think Striker has Risinger.”

\--

The penthouse is huge. And not in the kind of way that screams “criminal mastermind,” either; Ramsey’s place is beyond any of the guys Miles has taken down before. The doorknobs are worth at least one month’s rent in his own shitty apartment uptown, and even one the paintings lining the walls could pay off his student loans.

It screams royalty, reminds Miles exactly why they’ve never been able to take Ramsey and his crew down properly. He could sway anyone to his side without even making a dent in his income. It’s disgusting.

There are cameras set up all along the entry hall, each one no doubt aimed to track his progress. He’s been invited here as a test, and it would be stupid to believe that anyone here trusted him at all. He deliberately takes out his pistol and sets it on the table near the end of the hall, waving at one of the cameras.

“Hi, everyone.” He grins. “Just me, your friendly neighborhood cop, here to make a deal with the devil. You know how it is.”

The intercom above the table crackles to life. A voice he vaguely recognizes comes through the speaker. “Yeah, yeah. Listen, at this point you’ve walked through a metal detector and a few infrared sensors. I’m only gonna ask you to clean out your pockets once; we’ll know if you don’t get everything.”

Miles dutifully empties out all of his pockets, placing his pocketknife and keys alongside his gun. “Just leave my car alone, alright?” he says. “We all can respect a man’s love for his vehicle here.” He puts his wallet down, too, although he’s a little hesitant about it.

“I can’t make any promises,” the voice tells him. “You asked to work with us, and you’ve gotta deal with the consequences.”

“That’s fair,” Miles says. It isn’t.

The inner door clicks and swings open. Four men are sitting on a couch in the next room, a video game up on the screen. A fifth is standing next to the door, hand on the intercom.

“Sup, detective,” he says. “Congrats on the promotion.”

Miles jumps back, instinctively reaching for the gun he doesn’t have. The Brown Man has been a public enemy for almost as long as Miles has been a cop; they’ve even faced off, once or twice.

They aren’t really enemies here, though, Miles supposes. He forces himself to relax, bringing his hands down to his sides. “Thanks,” he says. “Worked hard for it.”

“So did I,” he retorts, grinning wide.

“Ray, stop terrorizing him.” The woman, Pattillo, enters the room with a six-pack of beer in either hand. “No need to kick him while he’s down.”

Ray holds up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he concedes, stepping back. “Welcome to our humble abode, please don’t break any of our shit. We don’t have insurance, and it’s all very expensive.”

“I know,” Miles tells him. “I’m the one who had to figure out how much it was all worth.”

Ray backs away and drapes himself over the remaining couch. Miles is left with nowhere to sit; he stays where he is. It isn’t until they finish whatever game they’re playing that Ramsey turns his head to address him.

“Come on, detective, you scared of the big bad mobsters?” he taunts. “Afraid our delinquency is contagious?”

Miles snorts. “No, I just didn’t want to interrupt.” He makes his way forward until he can rest his hands on the back of the couch. “I believe you have some information for me, Mr. Ramsey,” he says.

The video game pauses, ends. When it starts up again, it’s minus one player. The other three continue playing, but Miles knows that everyone is focused on him.

Geoff Ramsey stands up and walks to the front of the room. “I might,” he responds. “I need something to jog my memory, though.”

One of the boys on the couch snickers. “Look at Geoff,” he mutters, through a thick British accent. “He’s playing boss again.”

Ramsey looks away from Miles just long enough to scold his man. “Gavin, shut up or I’ll shoot you.”

“You’d never shoot me!” The boy, Gavin, laughs. “I’m your favorite.”

Everyone seems to collectively miss that comment. Geoff continues like the interruption never happened. “We got eyes on some of Striker’s crew.” He starts pacing in front of the window, a literal shadow over the Los Santos skyline. “Found one of their warehouses, actually.”

Miles is jumping the gun, falling right into the trap Ramsey’s setting up for him; he doesn’t care. “Where is it?” he demands, fists clenching the leather of the couch.

“That’s where my memory fails me,” Ramsey says. “I can’t quite remember the exact address.”

The other crew members are fidgeting now, ready for the bomb to drop. One of them, a curly-headed guy who looks a little young to be dealing in shit this serious, looks away from the television and smiles at Miles. It’s all teeth and sharp edges.

There’s a slip of paper in Miles’ left pocket. Its edges are soft; he’d crumpled it up and tossed it out at least four times on his way here, hoping against hope to come up with a better plan. Then he would remember Jon, out there somewhere, and he’d dig it right back out of the trash.

He won’t ever be able to step back from this. Up till now, he hasn’t technically done anything wrong; he’s done some research on some questionable people, had a drink with a kingpin, and maybe threatened one or two lackeys in an effort to get some information, but his rep as a good cop? It’s still intact. If he gives up the paper, it won’t exist at all.

Not only that, but the Fake AH Crew will have access to all kinds of shit they should never be allowed to get their hands on. Miles could be putting the lives of his precinct, his _city_ , on the line.

But if Ramsey knows where the Kings are hiding out, then he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.

Miles only hesitates a little bit. “Stop fucking around, Ramsey,” he huffs, pulling the paper out of his pocket. “I have the security codes for the evidence locker. Does that jog your memory?”

“A little bit,” Ramsey says, stroking his moustache. “I know it’s somewhere downtown, anyway.”

“The guys check it once an hour on their rounds. There’s a single security guard assigned to it at all times, sometimes two if we can swing it,” Miles continues, fighting down his frustration. “Response time for an alarm is between thirty and ninety seconds.”

“Thank you for that wonderfully detailed report, detective,” Ramsey says. “Gav, does it check out?”

The game pauses again. Gavin snatches the paper from Miles’ hand and reads it over. After a moment he tilts his head, brow furrowed. “Well, they _say_ the response time is between thirty and ninety seconds,” he says. “Personally, I’ve never seen them do it in under thirty-seven. But the code is right, anyway.”

He starts the game back up again like nothing’s happened. It feels a little like Miles is falling. His face must show it, too; the Brown Man takes one look at him and explodes into laughter.

“Well, c’mon, detective!” he exclaims. “Your precinct isn’t a fucking military base!”

“Wouldn’t really matter if it was,” Jack points out. “We’ve broken into plenty of those.”

“So why did you ask me to give you the code? Was this some kind of test?” Miles demands, pushing away from the couch and storming up to Ramsey. “I don’t have time to play games, here!”

Geoff smiles at him; it looks genuine, even, less like he’s planning out Miles’ demise and more like he’s trying to play nice. “Look, man, we don’t do business with just anybody. Especially not when it comes to cops.”

The curly one pipes up. “We had to know you were really desperate for our help. Can’t have you bailing the first time we ask you to play double-agent.”

He really wishes he had his gun. They’d have to take him seriously then.

“While you all are making me jump through your hoops,” he says, fighting to keep his voice level, “one of my guys is sitting in some Briggstown warehouse with Dick Striker and his buddies. And maybe that’s not a big deal to you, but it is to me, and it definitely is to _him_. So if you could give me the goddamn address, I’d be happy to get out of your hair.”

The room gets quiet. Even the television seems to sense the change in tone, pause music sounding off instead of the explosions and gunfire from before.

“That’s not really how this works,” Geoff tells him.

Miles wants to punch him. “Then fucking tell me how this works, Ramsey, because I’m having a really difficult time figuring that out.”

“You aren’t going into this alone, Detective Luna,” Jack informs him. “You can’t just storm a crew warehouse, guns blazing. It’s complicated shit.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Miles retorts.

The Brown Man rolls over onto his stomach and points at Miles. “You,” he says, “are trying very hard to be a badass. And while everyone here appreciates the attitude, I’m just going to tell you right now that all you really are is an idiot.”

Pattillo cuts in before Miles can say anything. “You’re not an assassin or a hitman. You’re a new detective. A month ago, you were a beat cop. Everyone in this room is above your skill level, and the Briggstown Kings are no different.”

“If you’re trying to convince me not to do this, you’re wasting your breath,” Miles says.

Geoff steps closer. “We’re saying that you can’t do this alone.” He motions to his crew. “We’re saying you need to work with us if you want to save your friend.”

The words don’t make sense at first. It takes a minute for them to sink in, for Miles to understand what they’re offering him. “Why?” he asks, looking around the room at each of them. “Why would you help me?”

No one answers.

“You said it yourself,” Miles insists, turning to Geoff. “The Kings don’t fuck with you; there’s no reason for you to get involved. So why the hell are you offering to help me?”

“We aren’t heartless, man,” Geoff tells him.

Miles snorts. “I have a few filing cabinets full of death certificates that disagree with you.”

Ramsey doesn’t falter. “Well, yeah. Alright. We’re terrible people,” he admits, shrugging. “But it’s like you said. We protect our own. So do you. It makes sense to lend a hand for a worthy cause.”

“Plus, Striker is a fucking dick,” the curly one says. “Tried to stab me once when a deal went south.”

“Poor Michael,” Gavin coos, moving to hug him. He’s shoved off the couch for his trouble.

It’s like a switch has been flipped. Gavin lets out a loud squawk and pulls Michael down to the floor with him. The Mad King moves his feet out of the way, pressing start on the video game and continuing to play even as the two other players die on screen. Brown Man rolls off the couch and onto the floor, joining the fray.

“Guys!” Geoff says. It almost sounds like a whine. “Damn it, could you at least _pretend_ to be cool? We’re supposed to look awesome in front of cops.”

Miles knows he’s staring. He can’t seem to look away. These people have had Los Santos in their pockets for longer than he’s been a cop. They’re legendary criminals, living in the most expensive and secure location in the city. They’ve robbed more banks than he’s set foot in. They’re the only hope he has for getting Jon back, the only people he can rely on to destroy the people responsible for his disappearance. And they’re currently having a tickle fight at his feet.

He isn’t sure they’re going to be enough after all.

\--

They have a whiteboard. It’s a giant monster of a thing hidden inside one of the penthouse closets, complete with wheels and a myriad of markers. Gavin brings it out after everyone has settled down, placing it in the center of the room. Geoff pulls the curtains over the windows, as if he’s worried about someone seeing what they’re doing.

“According to Mr. Detective here,” Gavin starts, picking up a black marker, “the Risemonger’s been missing in action for three days already.” He scrawls out a giant “3” on the board.

Geoff takes over, grabbing a red marker from the tray. “Normally, that would mean he’s dead,” he says, drawing a smiley face with X’s for eyes. He then scribbles it out ferociously. “But the Kings haven’t left any presents lying around town in the last few days, so he’s probably at least still in one piece.”

“Yeah, that’s reassuring,” Miles mutters. Jack raises an eyebrow at him and holds a finger over her mouth.

“Point is, we’ve gotta move quick if we wanna get to Striker before they start killing him.” Geoff uses the sleeve of his shirt to clear the board; Gavin protests when his side is cleaned off as well, but Geoff either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He picks a paper off the table and unfolds it, revealing a map of Briggstown. A red circle marks out the warehouse. “Risinger isn’t going to be in the warehouse, we already know that. It’s a halfway point for arms shipments from the bay area. That’s good, because--”

“No civilians,” Michael supplies, giving that sharp grin again. “No reasons to be careful.”

Ray mimes shooting off a rifle. “Easy pickings.”

Miles tries not to seem obviously displeased with that. Those guys aren’t civilians, they’re gang members. They’ve done some serious shit. Losing them is cleaning up the streets of Briggstown. That twisty feeling in his gut is normal, sure, but he can’t let it hold him back. If he does, he’s never going to find Jon in time.

“Exactly,” Geoff says. “We’ll snag a couple vans off the street tonight and drive to the warehouse under the cover of darkness, or whatever, and then we’ll get to work. Ray, you’ll be on top of the neighboring building here,” he circles another spot on the map, “to pick out anybody trying to make a run for it.”

“They could just go out the back door,” Miles says. Geoff laughs at him.

“They won’t, though. Michael’s gonna set up some explosives over there to give them a little push in the right direction.”

Michael punches the air. Miles feels a little sick.

“We’re not going to kill everyone, though, alright, we’re just gonna scare them. Shoot enough to get people talking.” He shoots a glare over his shoulder. “Got that, Ryan?”

The Vagabond holds up his hands. “Fine, fine! I’m on murder break.”

Miles stares at him. “Ryan?” he squeaks. “Your name is _Ryan?_ ”

“Is there, uh, something funny about that?”

Miles shakes his head, eyes wide. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Smart,” Geoff says. Ray snorts. “Anywho! Murder as necessary, and only as necessary. While Ryan, Detective Luna, and I are getting friendly with the enemy, Jack and Gavin will be breaking into the trucks they keep down the road for shipments. They’ll come by when we give the all clear.”

“We’ll get to the base looking like just another shipment,” Jack says, nodding her head and looking impressed. “As long as no one calls in and reports to Striker, one of their own trucks won’t raise any red flags.”

“Luna, you’ll come with me and Jack in the truck. Lads, you’ll follow behind in one of the vans and circle to the back of the warehouse to make sure no one gets out that way,” Geoff continues, apparently on a roll now. “Ryan, you’ll have to be the driver. They’d recognize anyone else, but they won’t know you if you don’t have the mask or the facepaint.”

“So I won’t be on murder break, then,” the Vagabond – _Ryan_ – says.

Miles thinks that over for a minute and then it hits him. “Is – you kill _everyone who sees you_?” he demands, pushing away until he’s smashed into the corner of the couch. “What the fuck, man. That’s – you’re a very scary person.”

“I’m just trying to live my life,” Ryan says. “Eye witnesses make that very difficult.”

“So does murder!” Miles hisses.

Geoff clears his throat. “We all have our hobbies, Detective Luna,” he intones. “Now, as I was saying. Ryan will drive the truck into the warehouse. They’ll open it expecting some ammunition.”

“And that’s exactly what we’ll give them,” Jack says, smiling to herself.

Miles protests before he can stop himself. “What if they’ve got Jon in there? We can’t just shoot blindly.”

Geoff shakes his head. “Whatever they’ve got Risinger there for, he’s apparently pretty valuable. They won’t just keep him out in the warehouse with all the lackeys; he’ll be somewhere else,” Geoff explains. “Once the main floor is cleared out, Jack and I will search any closed rooms or upper levels. You and Ryan will search the basement.”

“And we’ll keep an eye out for cops?” Ray guesses.

“You will, Ray. Gavin and Michael are going to steal us some new cars for the ride home.”

The heist – that’s what this is, Miles decides – sounds complicated. Raiding two gang bases in one night with almost no time for preparation is a suicide mission. They won’t be able to see anything and the noise will carry for miles if they blow anything up. Chances are they’re going to get caught.

Miles is going to get kicked off the force and spend the rest of his life behind bars. Maybe he’ll get lucky and Kerry will bring him snacks from the outside world every once in a while.

It might not even matter at this point. For all he knows, he was too late in tracking Ramsey down and Jon is already dead. Everything he’s doing, everything he’s _about_ to do, could amount to nothing.

“Does this sound like a good plan to you, Luna?” Geoff is staring at him expectantly, arms crossed over his chest.

“No,” he laughs a little, pulling at his hair, “it sounds like a fucking death wish. Let’s do it.”

\--

They do it that night. It takes less than two hours for Ryan and Jack to steal the cars they need and outfit them for the job. Michael leaves the penthouse after the meeting is over and comes back thirty minutes later with enough C4 to bring down a skyscraper, and by then Gavin has all the traffic cams of Briggstown pulled up on the television and a few laptops scattered around the room.

“It’s a good thing you don’t work the drug unit, detective,” Ray tells him as he lights up a joint. “You’d have to arrest me before we went and found our boy.”

The two of them are the only ones left in the room. Everyone else is working something else to prep for the job at hand, but Ray doesn’t really have anything he needs to do. He cleaned out his sniper rifle about ten minutes ago.

Miles knows he’ll regret asking, but there’s something that he’s been itching to ask. “How do you all know him?” he demands, words flooding out before he can stop himself.

Ray arches an eyebrow and lets out a long stream of smoke. When he’s finished, he shakes his head. “You aren’t gonna like the answer, bro. Turn back, danger ahead.”

“Is he part of the crew somehow? Does he work with you?”

He isn’t really sure what he expects the answer to be, but he knows it isn’t laughter. Ray giggles until he’s doubled over, clutching his stomach. “Oh, boy,” he wheezes. “Could you imagine Jon – _our_ Jon – working with a crew? With that hair, and. Oh, god. No. He’s not in the crew.”

Something in Miles’ chest loosens up, letting out the air he didn’t know he was holding. “So what is he, then?”

Ray smiles. “He’s a reporter, dude. And a damn good one.” He taps the ash of his joint into a tray on the table. “Jon was digging deep into the Fake AH Crew, and we didn’t like how close he was getting to the real stuff. Full names, addresses, all that kind of thing. We thought we’d keep an eye on him and make sure he had other things to think about.”

Some of the tension drains from Miles’ body. “You weren’t going to hurt him, either?”

“We thought about it, at first,” Ray admits. “But then we all actually met the guy and we realized it wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t be scared off if we threatened him, but we’d feel bad about it. So we gave him other stories to write.”

“Jon would have found it all out eventually, you know,” Miles says.

“Yeah, well, we kept him out of it for a while longer anyway.” Ray takes another long drag, this time blowing out smoke rings before shooting Miles a grin. “You helped out a lot with that, too. Great distraction.”

“So why are you helping me save him, then?” Miles asks. “If he’s threatening your way of life, why not just leave him?”

“Because he’s our problem,” Ray explains. It doesn’t help, and he must know that, because he continues after a beat. “Risinger lives in our territory, on our turf. Letting someone else take care of him is a sign of weakness. We let the Kings do this, what’s to stop them from getting more aggressive?”

It doesn’t have anything to do with what Miles said, then, about protecting one of his own; that was all a load of crap. The crew just wants to keep their reputation up.

“So you would have gone after them even if I hadn’t come to you for help.”

Ray shrugs. “Probably. We would have found out Jon was gone eventually. But hey, you sped the process up a little bit! You might’ve saved his life.”

Somehow, that doesn’t help Miles feel any better. He stares at the traffic cameras on the television screen, grainy monochrome images of cars sitting at stoplights and pedestrians on the sidewalk. The warehouse district is predictably silent but for the rare few.

“Might not have,” he says.

“Whoa, angst alert!” Ray laughs. “Calm down, dude, we’ll get him back safe and sound. The Fake AH Crew leaves no man behind.”

“Especially not to the fucking Kings!” Michael calls from the hallway.

He’s the first of the crew to return but it isn’t long before everyone else is filing into the room too. Ryan enters with the mask but no paint underneath, Jack comes with a med kit attached to her belt, and Gavin has about three different lock picks in his mouth. His pockets jingle as he walks.

Ramsey is the last one to enter, one gun slung over his shoulder and at least three pistols immediately visible. He tosses a black bag to Miles.

“Can’t go using your registered equipment for this one, buddy,” he says. “Pick your poison and let’s get this going before the sun sets. It’s a forty-minute drive to the warehouse.”

“Not if I’m in the driver’s seat!” Michael yells, leaping off the couch and grabbing his duffel bag from the floor. He rushes out the door and Gavin is right on his heels, Ryan walking just behind.

They exit just as quickly as they came, until it’s just Jack and Miles in the room. Miles has the bag open in his lap; there are plenty of knives and a number of smaller guns, each with the serial number filed off.

“If you backed out now, I’d have to kill you,” Jack warns him.

Miles grabs as much as he can carry and loads himself up with a belt of ammunition, slinging it over his shoulder. He’ll secure everything into place once they’re in the car.

“Let’s do this,” he says, nodding at Jack.

Jack motions to the door. “After you, detective.”

Inside the cars it’s all adrenaline and excitement, each of the crewmembers rattling off their duties and their positions to make sure everyone understands what’s going on. The com is a constant source of distraction in his ear, a way to keep him from getting too lost in his thoughts, but it’s only doing so much.

His phone is back at the penthouse. His phone, his wallet, his ID. If he dies out here no one is going to know who he is or where he’s gone. It didn’t occur to him before, just how much danger he was in; even the vests and masks that Ryan picked up after stealing the car will only provide him so much protection.

Miles reminds himself that Jon doesn’t have any protection at all.

Michael was right, though; with him in the driver’s seat of one car and Jack in the other, they make it to Briggstown in less than half the time. Miles thinks he might have permanently melded with the seat by the time they’re weaving through the warehouse district, but he’s glad for the time they’ve saved, if nothing else. Beside him, Ryan is peering out the window at the dark alleys they’re passing for a sign of Striker or his crew.

“It’s too quiet,” he says after a minute, sitting back in his seat. “They’ve either gotten really lazy or they know we’re coming.”

“We didn’t even know we were coming until this morning,” Geoff snaps. He’s tense, sitting so far forward in his seat that Miles is surprised he hasn’t fallen out of it. “How the fuck would they have known?”

Jack has been quiet for most of the drive, eyes on the road. She turned the headlights off the second they left the main drag of the city; without streetlights and city signs, it’s almost impossible to see anything. Now, though, she speaks up.

“Why did they take him, Miles?” she asks. “What was Jon working on that got him in so much trouble?”

Miles sighs. “Mostly, he was writing about you guys. He was trying to track down a source who said they could ID the Mad King, last I checked.”

“Right,” Ryan scoffs, “because that’s a possibility.”

“Nothing else?” Jack prods, apparently unsatisfied. “Anything that would have caught Striker’s attention?”

“If he was researching the Briggstown Kings, he didn’t tell me about it.” Miles realizes suddenly that he’s whispering; they all have been. Other than the engine of their stolen vehicle, the world around them is eerily quiet. No street rats, no cars other than Michael just behind them.

Geoff seems to pick up on Jack’s train of thought. “So how did you know Striker was the one that took him?”

“I don’t know, he –” Miles huffs and pulls at his hair, thinking back. “He left a fucking voicemail at the Post. Said their lead reporter was gone and to print it on the front page or some shit. Wanted to make sure everyone knew who was in control or something.”

There’s a moment of silence as that sinks in. Miles thinks they all might be looking at him; it’s too dark to know for sure.

“Striker doesn’t leave messages,” Jack says. “He’s reckless, but he isn’t stupid.”

The warehouse should be about two blocks from where they are. They’re so close Miles feels like he won’t make it, not the way they want him to; he’s about two seconds from leaping out of the car and running the rest of the way, ready to explode from the tension and the fear. They’re moving too damn slow; what if they’re too late?

“It’s a fucking trap!” Geoff declares, reaching for the shotgun at his feet.

The world turns white.

\-----------------------

ONE YEAR AGO

\-----------------------

Miles meets Jon at the scene of an accident.

Smoke is rising from the front of the car. There are alarms blaring over the top of police sirens, and the entire scene is flashing red and blue in the glow of police lights. The ambulance is there, too, but there wasn’t much they could do anyway. Miles and Kerry are in charge of handling the paperwork on the incident.

Before that, though, Kerry has to talk to forensics and Miles has this nerd with a notebook to sort out.

“What would you classify this as, Officer Luna?” he asks, looking up from his notes with bright blue eyes the size of the moon. His hair is falling in his face. He looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over.

Miles shrugs. “It’s a hit-and-run, as of right now,” he says. “If you want more information, you’ll have to wait for an official statement.”

“Do you think it’s connected to the recent rise in gang violence?” the reporter presses.

“No comment.”

He starts to walk away, hoping that’s the end of the conversation but knowing that it isn’t. Predictably, the reporter tails him.

“Was the crash connected to the Fake AH Crew?” he asks. “Was it related to the robbery on Fourteenth and Madison earlier this afternoon?”

Miles sighs heavily. He turns on his heel to face the nosy newsy. “What’s your name?”

“Jon Risinger, investigative reporter at the Los Santos Post.”

“Alright, Jon. Shouldn’t you be doing something more groundbreaking than listening to police scanners for petty crime?” Miles tries.

Jon grins and shakes his head. “Nah, I asked to cover this one. I was in the area.”

“Well maybe you could cover it from behind the caution tape?”

“You and I both know that isn’t going to happen, Officer Luna.”

It’s a challenge not to grab his shoulders and shake him. “Listen, Mr. Risinger, I know you’re just trying to get your story out with as much information as you can,” Miles says, trying not to get annoyed. They’re both just doing their jobs. “Here’s what I have for you: A reckless driver in a black minivan struck the car of an innocent civilian. The minivan sped off before we got here, and the civilian driver was dead on impact.”

He pauses to let the reporter catch up, watching him scribble frantically on his notepad. When the pencil stops, Miles keeps going.

“You can expect this intersection to be closed off for the rest of the night while we investigate,” he finishes. “If I were to tell you anything else, it would be speculation and it would have to go off the record.”

He’s a little alarmed when the guy automatically flips his notebook closed and puts his pencil behind his ear. “Alright. Off the record. Is this connected to the crew?”

Miles laughs. “You’re a fucking bloodhound, aren’t you?”

“Gotta be, officer. That’s the only way you get a story.” Risinger is surprisingly earnest in his statements, not breaking eye contact with Miles. “What do you have for me?”

No one else is really paying attention to them. Kerry and Barb are busy mapping out the crash site, the paramedics are wheeling the stretchers, and the crowd has started to thin out. Chances are, no one will be able to connect anything Miles says back to this specific conversation.

“The crew likes nondescript cars for their heists. Black SUVs, minivans, things like that. They don’t leave many survivors, and they don’t stick around to see the mess they made,” he says. “If this was the Fake AH Crew, I wouldn’t be surprised. That being said, I don’t want you pointing any fingers in the Post tonight.”

“And the robbery on Madison?”

Miles grins and shakes his head. “Can’t say anything, Mr. Risinger,” he says. “That’s not my crime scene.”

“But you know something,” he insists.

“I know that two black cars were involved in a high-speed chase in that area shortly after the robbery, and our officers lost track of them somewhere near here,” Miles replies. “Nothing you didn’t already know, I’d bet.”

Risinger nods. It looks like he wants to say something else, but Kerry is making his way over from the wreck. “Miles,” he calls. “We got a call on the radio. Looks like the minivan was ditched down by the docks.”

He takes in the situation a second too late, watching as the reporter scribbles the new information down in his notebook. Miles motions for him to stop talking, drawing a hand across his throat. He hopes his expression is threatening enough to get the point across.

“Down by the docks?” Risinger asks, already flipping his notebook back open. “Is it the same car?”

Kerry looks back and forth between Miles and Jon. “Dude,” he says, “who the hell is this guy?”

“Doesn’t matter, he’s leaving,” Miles replies, before Jon can get a word in. “Aren’t you?”

Risinger smiles. “I’ve got a new story to investigate, don’t I?” he says.

“Why do I get the feeling you aren’t just writing about the car crash?” Miles asks him.

“Probably because I’m not,” he says. “But hey, I’ll give you a call if I need any quotes on the official statement. Officer Miles Luna, right?”

Miles groans. “Please don’t call me.”

“Oh, but you’ve been such a big help!” Jon is grinning, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Don’t do it. I will hunt you down.”

“Um, I hate to interrupt… whatever this is,” Kerry starts, “but we’ve got a lot of work to do here. So whoever you are, if you could just skedaddle, that would be awesome.”

“Right, sure,” Risinger says, shoving his notepad into his pocket. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“You’re going down to the drop site, aren’t you,” Miles says. It isn’t a question; he knows the answer.

The reporter nods. “I would challenge you to a race, but it looks like you’re going to be here for a while.”

He hurries off and around the corner. Kerry at least has the decency to wait until the reporter is out of earshot to start ribbing Miles.

“Slacker,” he says. “Here I am working my ass off trying to figure out who our perp is, and you’re flirting with the press. I can’t believe you.”

“What can I say, partner? I just can’t keep them off me.”

Kerry snorts. “Yeah, right. When was the last time you went out on a date? The Paleozoic Era?”

Miles decides to ignore that, turning his attention back to the car crash. “Alright, Babs,” he calls out, “what’ve we got?”

Barb is kneeling down examining tire treads, camera dangling around her neck. “I’ll bet you forty dollars an angry soccer mom is in the precinct demanding to know what happened to her car before the end of the day.”

“I’ll take that bet,” he says.

\--

Jon doesn’t call.

Instead, he shows up at precinct that evening. He’s gotten changed since Miles last saw him; he’s got a nice button-up and tie underneath a vest. In the middle of the dingy reception area, he stands out like a sore thumb. Miles sees him when he’s dropping some paperwork off at the desk; he does a double-take.

“Listen,” Miles says, walking forward, “I’m very flattered, but I told you to wait for the official statement for more information. This,” he motions to Jon’s ensemble, “is not going to get anything out of me.”

“I’m actually not here for you,” Jon says. His brow is furrowed, but he’s smiling. “My job isn’t my entire life, and getting quotes from grouchy cops wasn’t the only thing I needed to do today.”

Miles is sure he’s blushing. He tries to cover up his embarrassment in the only way he knows how: general assholery. “So what are you here for, then?” he asks. “Got a date with a convict or something?”

“Or something,” Jon replies easily, peering over Miles’ shoulder. He nearly has to stand on his toes to do it. “Hi, Babs!”

“Jon!” Barb brushes past Miles, enveloping Jon in a hug.

“What, no hello for me?” Detective Marquis demands, coming to halt just next to Miles. “After everything I’ve done for you?”

“You’ve never done jack shit for me, Aaron,” Jon retorts, still wrapped up in Barb’s arms. “Where’s your other half? I like him better.”

“Chris will be here in a minute,” Barb says. “He lost a bet this morning and now he’s in charge of cleaning out the coffeemaker.”

And then Aaron notices Miles, reeling him back into the conversation before he can make an escape. “Hey, buddy!” he exclaims, wrapping an arm around Miles’ shoulder. “Jon, is this lousy cop giving you a hard time?”

“This lousy cop is about to give your face a hard time,” Miles threatens, mostly joking. He ducks out of Aaron’s grip.

Jon pulls away from Barbara and waves a hand. “Officer Luna was just keeping me company until you finished up your shift,” he says. “We met earlier today at a crime scene.”

“Ooh, _Officer Luna_ ,” Barb mimics, grinning. “Why don’t you call him Miles, Jon? Is this a kinky thing?”

Miles laughs, trying and failing to hide it behind a hand. Jon turns a rather vibrant shade of pink. “Up until now, I’ve been trying to keep our relationship professional!” he says, voice squeaky and flustered. “I don’t have any reason to call him by his first name. He’s a _source_.”

“Aw, Jon, I’m hurt!” Aaron exclaims. “I thought I was your go-to guy for crime.”

Miles claps him on the back. “That’s alright, pal,” he intones. “There are other reporters in the sea.”

Jon looks between the two of them. “It’s not – no one’s being replaced, jesus! I just need more than one person for some things, or my editor will get suspicious!”

“It’s okay, Jon,” Aaron tells him, pouting, “I understand.”

“Fuck you.”

Miles is almost positive this is his cue to leave. He’s dropped off the paperwork at the desk and the people that Jon was actually here to see have shown up. There’s no reason for him to stick around other than curiosity, and even that is outweighed by the discomfort he’s feeling in being an intruder on the conversation in the first place.

He’s trying to figure out exactly what he should say to excuse himself when Chris – perfect, wonderful, beautiful Chris! – enters the scene, a cup of coffee in his hands.

“I still say you cheated,” he says to Barb pointedly. And then, “Hi Jon. Can we go to dinner now?”

“Yes! Dinner!” Barb says. She turns to Miles. “We’re getting Italian. You can come, if you want.”

Miles looks back over his shoulder to where Kerry is diligently working on their reports for the day. “Nah, I think I’ve taken enough of a break as it is,” he says. “Requests for paint analysis won’t write themselves, you know.”

“Alright, well,” she says, “pasta la vista!”

Everyone groans at her for that one, giving Miles a golden opportunity to back cleanly out of the conversation. He steps away, and makes it about three steps before –

“Hey, Miles!” Jon says.

Miles turns to face him, biting his lip. “Hmm?”

“I’ll, uh. See you around?”

He’s got one arm around Barb’s waist and Aaron has an elbow on his shoulder. Chris is already halfway through the door, but he’s stopped himself there. It feels like things are frozen, like everyone is holding their breath waiting for his answer.

“Sure,” he says, surprising himself. “I mean, uh, you’ve got my number. Dial 911 and ask for me, right?”

Jon laughs. “Yeah, I’ll try that.”

The group walks out into the evening together, leaving Miles a much quieter precinct. He walks back to his desk bemused, unsure of exactly what took place. Kerry is watching him as he drops into his chair, one eyebrow raised.

“Twice in one day you make me do all the work,” he says, “while you flirt with strangers right in front of me. I want a divorce.”

Miles smiles to himself, pulling open a request form on his monitor. “Come on now, Kerry. You know I only have eyes for you.”

_Jon called him by his first name._

\--

Generally speaking, Miles is not allowed into either the morgue or the CSI unit. The official reason is that he’s a hazard to the expensive tech. The reality is that Barb and Arryn usually end up _throwing_ expensive tech at him when he comes around. Which is not at all his fault, and it’s total bullshit that he’s penalized for it anyway.

He’s gotten to be an expert at breaking this particular rule. If he brings offerings of caffeine and snacks, for example, the girls don’t have a free hand to throw with. Today it’s coffee and bagels, which should buy him about ten minutes. And seeing as he has fifteen minutes before his shift even starts, he can be in and out before he needs to follow workplace rules.

The door to the lab swings open; the response is almost immediate.

“Miles, go away!” Arryn yells from inside her office.

“How did you know it was me?”

Barb pokes her head out the doorway. “We say it to everyone, just in case,” she tells him. “Now shoo!” She ducks back inside.

“You owe me ten dollars,” Arryn says.

Barb groans. “Can’t I just get you a coffee from upstairs?”

“I got that covered,” Miles says, walking into the office despite loud protests. He sets his offerings on the table. “One with cream for Arryn and sugar for Barb. Plus two bagels with cream cheese, in case you’re hungry. Or something.”

“Thanks, Miles!” Arryn says, snatching up her coffee and grinning at Barb. “Ten. Dollars.”

Barb frowns and picks up her own coffee. “You ruin everything, Miles.”

“Except your coffee.”

“Except my coffee,” she concedes. “Thank you. Now what do you want?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Miles exclaims, holding up both hands. “Can’t a fella just come and visit his two favorite ladies?”

“He could,” Arryn says, through a mouthful of bagel, “but he never does.”

Miles gasps. “Why I – you think – I am _offended_ that you would just…” They’re both staring him down, unimpressed. “Okay, fine,” he surrenders, and then turns to Barb. “How do you know Jon?” he asks.

Barb gasps and her blank stare transforms into a smirk. “We went to college together,” she says. “Now tell me why you want to know.”

“No reason. I just didn’t know you knew him.”

Arryn is still staring at him. He watches her eyes widen over the rim of the coffee mug. “You,” she accuses, setting it down on the table, “think he’s hot.”

“No.” Miles denies. “No, no, no, that’s not what I said. I did not say that.”

“So you think he’s ugly?” Barb asks, tilting her head to the side. “That’s not very nice, Miles. Jon is my best friend.”

“He isn’t ugly, I just never said–” Miles laughs and shakes his head. “Stop putting words in my mouth, damn it. I didn’t realize anyone around here knew him, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all,” Arryn states solemnly, nodding her head. “Just a whimsical wondering with nothing to it.”

Barb sits down on the desk, cradling her coffee in her hands. “So if I were to tell you that he was asking about you at dinner last night, that wouldn’t do anything for you? No butterflies in the tummy, nothing?”

“Well, uh,” Miles clears his throat and crosses his arms, trying to appear completely apathetic. “What kinds of questions was he asking?”

Barb shakes her head. “Ask him yourself, Miles. He said he was gonna call you.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s going to, though, that’s just a thing that you say to people.”

“No, Miles,” Arryn corrects him, “that’s just a thing that _you_ say to people.”

“So you think he’s actually going to call me?” Miles asks.

Barb and Arryn make eye contact and silently take a sip of their coffee instead of replying.

“Guys, come on!” he whines. “Help me!”

“Hey Miles?” Arryn asks sweetly. “Didn’t your shift start at eight?”

The clock over her desk says 8:05.

“Fuck my life,” Miles curses. “And fuck you two,” he adds, before sprinting out of the lab. If he’s lucky, he’ll get there before Kerry does and the captain won’t even notice he was missing.

\--

The Fake AH Crew was never part of Miles’ job description. Sure, they’d been around for a while by the time he came to work at the LSPD, but he’d only ever been a beat cop. His job was traffic tickets and reckless behavior. In his first three years, his most exciting case was when the senior retirement facility lost one of its patients.

He and Kerry found Mrs. Hawthorne wandering around just a few blocks away in only a nightgown and a pair of threadbare slippers. She had mistaken him for a nephew and tackled him in a surprisingly forceful hug.

Now he’s been around for five years, though, and it gets hard to avoid the crews after a while.

He first meets the Brown Man during a routine drive near the docks. It’s been three days since the robbery and subsequent car crash; crew activity has been low, probably because they’ve been too busy celebrating to cause any more damage.

There have been rumors about an FAHC base in this area for months now. Members of opposing gangs claim they’ve been held in a warehouse somewhere, a kind of hideout for the crew when their regular quarters are too risky or they’re lying low.

Miles isn’t thinking about that at all tonight, though. Neither is Kerry.

“Do you think we could stop for a potty break soon?” Kerry asks him.

Miles laughs. “Where, the ocean? No, we can’t stop. Just hold it in.”

“Fine, but I’m not cleaning up the seat.”

“Like hell you aren’t.”

They’ve driven this route hundreds of times before without issue. The biggest threat they face is falling asleep at the wheel or someone asking them for money on the other side of the window. Miles is perfectly comfortable meandering through the streets, headlights illuminating block after block of empty roads and haggard pedestrians.

“Okay, seriously, I’m going to piss my pants,” Kerry warns. “There’s a gas station down on Washington. Hurry.”

Miles taps the breaks, slowing the car to a near-stop. “Let’s not,” he says. “Let’s take our time and enjoy the atmosphere.”

Kerry groans. “Miles, no! Bad! I’m going to tell on you when we get back to the precinct.”

Miles laughs and presses the gas again. “Fine, you needy bastard. I’ll give you five minutes.”

Stopping at the gas station is no big deal, anyway. He could really use a snack. The two of them walk in together and Kerry makes a mad dash for the bathroom. Miles is browsing the drink aisle when the bell over the door rings.

The guy who walks in is carrying a pink sniper rifle. He’s got a purple hoodie and a black hockey mask on, and he looks like he shouldn’t even be out of high school yet. Miles knows instantly who it is, or at least he has his suspicions. The Brown Man may be one of the more elusive crew members, but that doesn’t mean no one has ever seen him.

“Holy shit,” Miles whispers, fighting down a wave of excitement and ducking down behind a shelf of snacks and poking his head around the side. “A fucking _robbery?_ ” He slides his gun out of its holster, but doesn’t hold it up.

The Brown Man grabs a few candy bars from the display and puts them down beside the register. “I’ll take these,” he says. And then, almost as an afterthought: “Oh! Go ahead and give me all the money you’ve got in the register, too.”

“Nice line,” Miles whispers, frowning. “Why don’t I get to say cool shit like that?”

The woman behind the register has both her hands in the air. “Please, I don’t–”

“Just do it, lady, I’m on the clock here.” He motions with his gun, waving her along. She complies, opening the cash register and digging through.

Miles walks out from behind the shelving unit with his gun held at the ready. “That’s enough,” he says, sounding a lot less intimidating than he wants to. “Put the gun down.”

The Brown Man actually laughs. “Suck my dick, motherfucker,” he says. His gun is aimed at Miles.

“You really don’t wanna do that,” Kerry calls out. He steps out from the hallway leading to the bathroom with his handgun at the ready. “Two against one, man. You can’t win.”

Miles ducks when the gun goes off, but it doesn’t really matter; the Brown Man was aiming for the sprinkler system. The pipes burst in a shower of sparks and water pours out over them.

The woman behind the counter screams as the alarm goes off. Miles is suddenly overwhelmed with the chaos of the noise and the water raining onto him. Kerry is cursing loudly and car tires are squealing against the pavement outside.

The Brown Man is gone. He took the cash. The candy bars are still on the counter.

If Miles feels frustrated at first, it’s nothing compared to how he feels when he gets back to the precinct. By then he’s had to tell the story four times, and every time it’s made him feel more like a failure. He knows he did everything right. There was a civilian. He couldn’t run the risk of firing blind. But the Brown Man got away, and it’s on him.

They’re eventually dismissed for the evening after reporting back to Captain Hullum. Miles has never been happier to change out of his uniform, ready for some dry clothes. He’s cold and tired and so frustrated he thinks he might punch something.

“Look at it this way,” Kerry tells him, “we saved a life today. If you hadn’t been there, the store owner would be dead. The FAHC doesn’t leave witnesses.”

“I should have made a move sooner,” Miles insists. He slams the door to his locker and falls back onto the bench. “I waited too long before I called him out.”

Kerry frowns. “Not really? If you’d stepped out any sooner, I wouldn’t have been able to back you up. He would have shot you and the woman, and then he would have made off with the money before I even had my pants zipped.”

He’s right. Miles knows he’s right. That doesn’t keep the guilt from solidifying in his stomach, a constant mantra of _I could do better_ running through his head on repeat. Miles grits his teeth and doesn’t respond.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Kerry starts up again, sounding like he’s smiling. “Someone left a message for you while we were out.” He holds out a piece of scrap paper. “A guy named Jon. He wanted to know if you’d be free for dinner tonight.”

Miles squints, staring at the paper. There’s a phone number there. He doesn’t know when Kerry had time to check the answering machine; they’ve been hounded by the administration since they got back.

“Did Barb put you up to this?” he asks, reaching slowly for the paper. “Are we all gonna laugh about this later or something?”

Kerry lets him take it. “I don’t know about that, but you might want to call him soon. He left that message hours ago.”

Miles sits up and pulls his cellphone out of his pocket, never breaking eye contact with Kerry. He dials in the number and presses send; Kerry doesn’t even twitch.

Jon picks up on the second ring. “Hello?” he asks.

“Hi Jon, it’s Miles. Did you leave a message for me at the station today?”

“Miles! Hi!” Something clatters to the ground. Jon curses. Miles smiles, and then remembers Kerry is there watching him and tries to school his face into something a little more neutral. “I did! I hope that’s okay. I didn’t have your cell number, and no one else would give it to me.”

“No, that’s fine,” Miles says. “I get it.”

There’s a beat of silence. Miles is still struggling to keep a straight face; he isn’t quite sure what Jon is doing, but he kind of hopes it’s the same thing.

Kerry watches for about ten seconds before his patience is exhausted. “Ask him to dinner, dumbass!” he whispers.

Miles jumps, almost dropping his phone. “Right! Um, dinner. That’s what you called for earlier, right? Food?”

“Yeah, it is,” Jon replies. “Although I kind of already ate. You took a while to get back to me.”

It isn’t good news. Miles was starting to think that tonight was looking up. “Right, yeah. I’m. Sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long. Maybe some other time, or not, it’s fine. I–”

“Miles,” Jon interrupts. He’s laughing. “Why don’t we just go out for drinks? You sound like you could use one.”

“Yeah,” Miles says, dragging a hand down his face. “You have no idea.”

He agrees to meet Jon at a bar downtown in about an hour. The entire time, Kerry is giving him the thumbs up and nodding encouragingly. Miles flips him off, but it’s hard to really feel annoyed.

“Is this the Gerard Way-looking fucker that was pestering you at the crime scene?” he asks when Miles hangs up.

“He’s a reporter. It’s his job to pester people.”

“Really? Maybe you should ask him for a job. You’d be great at that.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

It’s hard not to hurry. He’s exhausted, sure, but beneath that he can feel nervous excitement building. Miles grabs his jacket and hurries out of the building to his car. He’s going to get there way too early; he doesn’t care. The radio is blasting music and he has his windows down in an effort to keep his energy going the whole ride.

Turns out it doesn’t matter how early he is, anyway; when he walks in, Jon is already at the bar talking to someone. Miles does his best not to rush over, but Jon spots him right away and walks to meet him, a drink in hand.

“Hey!” he says, grinning. “You made it!”

“What, did you think I wouldn’t?” Miles places a hand on his heart. “I’m wounded, Jon.”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s not – I wasn’t sure. Barb called me a few minutes ago and told me that–” He stops, eyes going wide. “She said you got _shot_ at, Miles! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in a hospital or something?”

“No, I’m fine, I swear. Look, not a scratch!” Miles holds both of his arms out. “And while I would love to let you believe I’m impervious to bullets and cool shit like that, I feel like I need to clarify: He didn’t shoot at me, exactly. He shot at the sprinkler above my head.”

“But still!” Jon insists, leading Miles over to one of the tables. “Sit down, I’ll – I’ll get you a drink. What do you want?”

Miles laughs. “Jon, Jesus Christ, sit down. I’ll get my own drink eventually.”

He motions to the seat across from him, raising an eyebrow. Jon stares him down for a minute before he relents and takes a seat.

“So,” Miles starts, before Jon can interrogate him, “how was your day?”

Jon laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Good! My day was good. I interviewed a thirteen-year old and went to the grocery store. How was your day, Miles?”

“You know, Jon, nothing of note happened to me today.” Miles leans forward, resting his hand on his chin. “I went down by the docks for a drive and then I got a phone call and now I’m here.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Scout’s honor.”

“Right, scout’s honor,” Jon says. “I’m totally convinced.” He smirks and takes a drink.

\--

“Put your weapon down,” Miles orders, gun held straight in front of him. “No need for that here. We’re all just good friends, just some buddies hanging out, right?”

The silhouette, predictably, doesn’t respond.

“Oh, you wanna do this the hard way?” Miles laughs, grinning. “That’s a shame, see, because I,” he fires his first round, “have perfect,” second round, “aim!” The third round goes off.

The silhouette is a stubborn adversary. It still stands.

“Oho, a _tough_ guy!” Miles exclaims. “Not for long!” He fires his three remaining rounds in quick succession. “That’ll teach you!”

Beside him, Kerry is yelling derogatory insults at his own target. “Take that, you bastard!”

Miles puts down his gun and pulls off his headphones. He presses the button to call the target forward. Five shots landed inside a kill zone. He aimed the sixth one at a more entertaining spot. Kerry peers around the barrier between them and giggles.

“Nice shooting, Luna,” he says, going for a high five.

Miles returns it. “Same to you, Shawcross.”

“Would be better if you’d shut up while you did it!” Brandon calls out from his own station a little farther down the line.

“Suck my dick, Farmahini!” Miles yells, flipping him off. Brandon laughs and focuses back on his own target.

“I’m hanging this one up on my fridge.” Kerry displays his target proudly, all six shots landing solidly in the head.

Miles nods, rolling up his poster. “The Brown Man doesn’t stand a chance against us now.”

“He didn’t the first time, bro! Had to fire at the sprinklers just to escape our wrath.”

They walk together to the weapons check-in and return their guns for their badges. Brandon and Jordan are just behind them, chatting together about a recent case. Miles doesn’t pay attention to them until Jordan puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, you guys wanna go out tonight?” he asks. “We found a new sports bar downtown. The bartender gives out free drinks when his teams score.”

Miles raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t seem like a very practical business model.”

“You know, I agree,” Brandon says, “but I’m not about to argue with a free beer when the opportunity presents itself.”

“Neither am I,” Kerry responds. “I’m in.”

The trio looks expectantly at Miles. He holds up his hands. “Sorry, guys, but I’ve already got plans with someone.”

The group starts making their way to reception, ready to grab their coats and get out. Unfortunately for Miles, that doesn’t stop the conversation.

Jordan glances between Miles and Kerry. “You know other people?”

“Well, I don’t.” Kerry crosses his arms and maybe glares a little. “But lately Miles has been _hanging out_ with some reporter guy.”

“Oho, has he now?” Brandon sidles up and places an elbow on Miles’ shoulder. It’s a bit of a reach. “It must be something serious if it has him abandoning free drinks with the boys.”

“Come on, lay off.” Miles laughs and shoves Brandon off of him.

Jon has been around for a few weeks now. Miles isn’t sure that what they’ve been doing can be classified as dating, but he isn’t sure what else to call it when it’s just the two of them spending so much time together, just the two of them. Up until today, he thought maybe they were just getting to know each other, but then Jon had called and asked him over for dinner.

That had sounded alarmingly like a date at the time. He isn’t quite as sure now. He parts ways with Kerry and the boys, mulling over the possibilities.

Considering Jon’s endless list of dietary restrictions, eating out might be more of a hassle for him than cooking a meal. This could be his lazy night in, as opposed to some big effort to woo Miles. On the other hand, though, it will be the first time that Miles has seen his home.

Miles slides into his car and enters Jon’s address into his phone. He turns the radio on, thumbs tapping along with the beat of whatever upbeat song is playing.

“Jon’s a nice guy,” he tells himself, leaning his head back against the headrest. “If I assume this is a date and it isn’t, he’ll let me down easy. It’ll only be _mildly_ humiliating. We’ll move past it in a couple of years, when he’s happily married and I’m all alone.”

He pulls out of the parking lot. The apartment complex isn’t far, which is probably for the best; Miles is already overthinking all of this.

“If I walk in the door and Barb is there with her boyfriends, then I’ll know for sure and everything will be fine,” he mutters, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “No need to embarrass myself in front of them.”

The stoplights in Los Santos take too fucking long to change.

“If it _is_ a date, though, and I show up dressed like – God, do I smell like _gunpowder_?” Miles sniffs at his shirt sleeve. “Oh, I totally do. Is that – would that be hot, or just unhygienic? Do I have time to run home? No, he knows what I do. He’ll be cool with it.”

Someone sprints across the street in front of his car. He hardly even notices.

“Should I bring him something? Like, I don’t know. Bread? Bread is always nice for dinner.” He pauses. “Does bread have gluten in it?”

The radio has switched to commercials. His thumbs keep tapping.

“I mean, it would be rude to show up empty-handed if this is a date. Would it be rude for bros hanging out?”

Somehow, he reaches Jon’s apartment complex in one piece. He double-checks the address before sliding his phone into his pocket. At some point, he must have stopped to buy something; a little bouquet of tulips is sitting in his passenger seat.

“Well,” Miles huffs out. “Go big or go home, I guess.”

Jon lives on the fourth floor. The elevator is out, and Miles is already running late; he takes the stairs two at a time and rushes down the hall, scanning doors until he finds 432A.

The door opens after the second knock. Jon is on the other side, a dog wrapped around his shins.

“Oh!” he exclaims, eyes wide. “You brought flowers?”

Miles immediately realizes his mistake and ducks his head. “God, okay, so that _isn’t_ what this is. That’s my bad, I guess. Uh, we can pretend that–”

“Right, that’s not what this is,” Jon cuts him off, grabbing the tulips from his hands. “I just invite everyone over to my house for a romantic dinner.” He retreats into the kitchen.

Miles follows him in, feeling dazed. He hesitates before asking, “So this is definitely a date?”

“They’ve all been dates,” Jon replies. His dog is still standing just inside the door, staring at Miles and wagging their tail. “Or at least they have been for me.”

It’s a relief to hear that they’re on the same page. Something in Miles loosens up, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Jon reappears from the kitchen in time to see him kneeling down, hand held out to the puppy.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Jon says, walking over. He picks up the dog, placing them around his neck like a scarf. The dog settles into it, as if it’s normal to wear a living animal. “People always end up liking Lizzy more than they like me.”

Miles stares up at Jon from his crouch, bemused and a little endeared. “Why do you hold your dog like that? You’re weird. I already like her more than you.”

“Hey,” Jon protests, without any heat behind it, “I made you _lasagna_.”

“Lasagna?” Miles pops up to standing. “I lied. You’re absolutely my favorite.” He presses a quick kiss to Jon’s cheek and hurries into the kitchen, leaving Jon smiling after him.

If he hadn’t known it was a date before, he definitely would have figured it out walking into the kitchen. There’s a red tablecloth set out, with fancy dishware and at least two forks at each seat. A bouquet of roses is on the island, an overflowing vase shedding red petals. Miles’ comparatively cheap gas-station tulips are in the center of the table now, set between two candles.

Miles doesn’t realize he’s stopped in his tracks until Jon comes up behind him, still wearing Lizzy around his neck. “Too much?” he asks, sounding unsure.

“Have I forgotten an anniversary?” Miles asks back. “How long have we even been dating?”

Jon laughs and shakes his head, embarrassed. “I wanted to make sure I was being clear,” he says. “Barb told me you were interested, but you never really picked up on any hints. So I thought maybe I should stop beating around the bush.”

“I’m buying Barb a box of chocolates later.”

“Let’s hope your taste in chocolate is better than your taste in flowers,” Jon says.

“Hey! Spontaneity is a desirable personality trait.” Miles objects. He walks over to the table and takes a seat.

“Who says I’m interested in your personality?” Jon says, leering at Miles. It’s hardly effective when he’s got a dog wrapped around his shoulders.

Miles laughs out loud, grinning wide. “I hate to tell you this, Jon, but my personality is my best asset. You’re going to be disappointed if you’re in this for my skills in the bedroom.”

Jon sets Lizzy down and walks to his own seat. “Well then this relationship isn’t going to last very long, Miles.”

The dinner is nice, of course. The food is fine – even if the pasta _is_ gluten-free – and the conversation is relaxed. Despite having gone so over the top in presentation, Jon doesn’t seem intent in acting any more romantic tonight than he ever does.

When they’ve finished the food they move to the living room, where Jon has a selection of movies spread out on his ottoman. He’s in the middle of going through the list when Miles spots an Xbox, tucked away beside the television.

“Oh, no way,” he says, interrupting Jon mid-title. “You can’t tell me we’re gonna watch some silly movies when I could be kicking your ass at Halo, Jon.”

Jon looks confused for a minute before it clicks, and then he’s grinning. “I didn’t offer it up because I don’t want you to dump me when you lose.”

“Please, Jon!” Miles exclaims, scrambling over to the Xbox and looking for controllers. “I never lose. You’re going down.”

The set up the console and arrange themselves on the couch, pressed up against each other with the controllers in their laps. Jon sets up a game while Miles fiddles with his controller impatiently, excited for the way the night is going.

The loading screen pops up and Jon nudges him in the side. “Hey, Miles?”

Miles looks over at him. “Wha-?”

Jon cuts him off with a kiss, sudden and intense. Miles freezes for a second before he caves, closing his eyes and kissing back. After a minute Jon pulls away, turning back to the television screen.

It takes a while for Miles to recover enough to pull himself together; by then, his character has already been shot.

“You dirty motherfucking cheater!” he yells. Jon laughs.

\--

The promotion comes as a surprise.

Miles can’t say he disagrees with the decision, especially considering Kerry is moving up with him. If they’re going to be detectives, they’d be better off detecting together. He just isn’t quite convinced he’s done enough to deserve it yet.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Jon tells him on the car ride to the ceremony. “They wouldn’t make you a detective if they didn’t believe you could pull it off.”

“I’m not saying they don’t believe I can do it.” Miles is patting his thigh erratically; Jon places a hand over his and stops him. “It’s just that I think they’re _wrong_.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely right, my mistake.” Jon turns into the parking lot of City Hall. “How could the police commissioner possibly know who to promote to detective? It’s not like that’s part of his job or anything.”

They pull into a spot and sit quietly for a minute or two. Miles has started shaking his leg; Jon squeezes his knee, probably to be reassuring.

“You’re good at what you do, Miles,” he says.

Miles looks to him. “Kiss for good luck?”

“Not on your life,” Jon says. He does it anyway.

The ceremony is relatively well-attended, mostly by police captains and what Miles can only assume is journalists. Jon seems to recognize a few of them, waving as they make their way through the room. Before long they’re approached by a woman with purple hair and a reporter’s notepad.

“Jon, you aren’t on assignment!” she says, pointing her pen accusingly. “What are you doing here?”

“Meg, hey! I didn’t realize you were going to be here.” Jon looks to Miles. “Miles, this is Meg, my editor at the Post. Meg, this is Miles, my boyfriend and soon-to-be detective for the LSPD.”

“Well, congratulations,” Meg says, tucking her pen behind her ear and offering a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Miles.”

“That’s not at all reassuring.”

Jon elbows Miles in the side. “Shut up, I’ve only told her the good stuff.”

“I promise nothing he has told you about me is true,” Miles insists, reaching out and grabbing Meg’s arm.

Meg looks him over, eyebrows raised. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

“Hey!” Jon exclaims, wrapping an arm around Miles’ waist. Miles automatically drapes his arm over Jon’s shoulder. “You already have two boys of your own. Miles is mine.”

“And I don’t think I’d trade you,” Meg says. “No offense to you, Miles, of course.”

“None taken.” Miles tightens his grip on Jon. “So, Meg, how does a member of the editorial staff end up reporting on basic city stuff like this? Shouldn’t you have interns or something who can do this sort of thing?”

Meg nods. “Normally Jon would do it, actually! But he knows better than to sign up for a story where he’s personally invested. It would be a conflict of interest.”

Jon opens his mouth to interrupt; Meg doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on responding to Miles’ question.

“Besides, he’s got a lot on his plate right now,” she continues on. “We’ve had him running the investigative branch of the paper, and his first deadline is coming up in two weeks. Ash and I are hoping it can be front-page.”

The conversation turns mostly to business from there. Meg flips open her notebook and turns on her phone recorder, asking Miles for quotes regarding his recent promotion. Miles complies, answering as best he can, but he’s a little distracted.

Jon had never told him about an investigative piece.

He’s a little stiff against Miles now, as if he knows what Miles is thinking. When Meg is finished getting her quotes and excuses herself, Jon moves into action almost immediately.

“It isn’t a big deal,” he says, “I just can’t talk about it yet.”

Miles stares at him, a little alarmed. “Why not? Is it dangerous?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Says the fucking _cop_ ,” he retorts. “Actually, Miles, I’m investigating an incoming alien invasion. They’ve offered to abduct me in two days.”

He’s ignoring the question. Miles persists. “Why can’t you talk about it?”

“Because you might want to get involved,” Jon responds, “what with it being illegal and all.”

“But you would tell me if you were going to be in trouble, right?” Miles turns to face Jon head-on.

Jon stares right back. “Of course I would.” He leans up on his toes and presses a kiss to Miles’ lips. “Now go on, Detective Luna, it’s time for you to get a fancy medal or something.”

He’s right; everyone is starting to take their seats. Miles sees Kerry up on the platform at the front of the room. He moves up and stands beside him, crossing his arms behind his back.

“Ready for this, partner?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth.

Kerry cracks a grin. “You bet your ass I am.”

The commissioner recites a speech on honor and duty. Cameras flash as Miles and Kerry step forward. Miles keeps his eyes on Jon the whole time, wondering exactly what it is that he could be working on, what it is that he would be hiding away.

He shakes hands and offers his gratitude for the honor, and then the event is over and he and Jon are back in the car again, almost like nothing has changed at all.

\--

“So what’s it like being detective?” Meg asks, punctuating her question with a sip of her drink.

Jon and Barb have gone to the bar to buy another round. It’s just the two of them sitting in the booth now, the conversation in a lull.

Miles humors her. “It’s a little different,” he tells her. He rubs at the condensation on his glass. “I walk into work and I’m expected to solve serious crimes now. Not just filing paperwork for missing items but actually figuring out who stole them.”

“What’s that like?” she presses. “People relying on you to ensure they get justice.”

“Do you talk to everyone like you’re conducting an interview?” Miles asks, fighting back a grin. “Your boyfriends must hate that.”

“Oh, come on!” she exclaims, smiling even as she tries to look offended. “There’s no _way_ Jon is never like this around you. He does interviews all day long!”

“Yeah, exactly,” Miles retorts. “By the time he gets to me, he’s so tired of asking people questions it’s almost impossible to have a conversation until he’s had a good hour to recover.”

“Well, alright, that’s,” Meg sits back in her chair, considering. “That makes sense, knowing Jon. But still! You spend your day interrogating people, too. You know how hard it is to stop asking questions.”

“Well, you know, Meg,” he starts, “I only need to interrogate people breaking the law. If that’s not happening I don’t have any questions.”

“How do you know who’s breaking the law?”

“Generally they’re the ones who are in a holding cell,” Miles tells her. Meg snorts.

“That’s faulty logic. I could be a criminal! You wouldn’t _know_.” She points her straw at him, flinging splashes of whatever it is she’s drinking.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m off duty.” Miles knocks her straw away. “Besides, I’m more suspicious of these boys you and Jon are always talking about. How come I’ve never met them?”

Meg shrugs, smiling. “I don’t know, they’re busy! They work a lot.”

“They’re too busy to spend their time with you?” Miles raises an eyebrow. “Dump them. Dump them both, Meg.”

Jon and Barb are back now with more drinks. Jon passes Miles a beer and slips a glass of water over to Meg, who smiles at him in thanks. Barb sets a plate of nachos down on the table.

“I’m nacho sure how much those cost me,” she says, completely deadpan, “cheese pay me back later, cheese.”

Everyone at the table collectively groans. Barb doesn’t seem to mind.

Miles turns back to Meg. “I’m just saying, no one is too busy for drinks with friends.”

“They’re – I don’t know, they’ve got their own friends,” Meg says. She turns to Jon, pouting. “Miles is being mean to me!”

“Hey, no, not true!” Miles argues, leaning forward. “Don’t go spreading lies about me, Turney, that’s slander and I can arrest you.”

Jon shakes his head. “That isn’t how it works,” he says. “That is not how it works at all.”

“Don’t make me arrest you too, Risinger,” Miles intones.

“Fight, fight, fight,” Barb whispers, watching them intently. Meg laughs.

The club is starting to fill up with the partygoers and nighttime crowd. Already it’s getting hard to hear each other over the bassline, and the lights are getting dimmer by the minute. Miles is starting to think that they should head out and get some sleep before work tomorrow; he knows Jon has an early morning, and so does he.

The rest of the group seems to have the same idea; though they’ve just started on their drinks, he can see Meg checking her phone for new messages a little too frequently, and Barb keeps looking at her watch. They’ve both got other plans after this with their own dates anyway, and it would be a lot to ask them to stay for much longer.

Jon leans against Miles, sagging down into it just a bit. “I think we’re getting old,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” he responds easily, reaching up to pet Jon’s hair. “I am an ageless, immortal being destined to one day rule the world.”

“So one more round after this one, then?” Barb asks, teasing.

“Oh, hell no,” Miles shoots back. “Even ageless royalty needs to fucking sleep, Babs.”

The conversation slows down a little as they finish up. When the last of the nachos are gone, they all collect their coats and weasel their way out of the club and into the chilly nighttime. Miles is ready to just go home and call it a night, but Barb and Jon are still talking to each other. After a minute, he realizes that Meg is watching him.

“Like what you see?” he asks, grinning.

She smiles a little, but mostly maintains her composure. “Can you do me a favor, Miles?” Meg asks, shifting on the balls of her feet.

“Yeah, sure,” Miles says, sobering up. “What do you need?”

“Take good care of Jon?” she asks tentatively.

Miles freezes up a little, suddenly much more aware of just how far away Jon is standing from him. “Why? Is he in trouble? What’s going on?”

“Nothing yet!” Meg backtracks, holding up a hand in a way that’s probably meant to be reassuring. “It’s just this project he’s working on – I think it might attract some negative attention. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Miles opens his mouth to respond somehow – to ask more questions or demand she tell him exactly what’s going on – but he doesn’t get the chance.

“We’d better get going if we want to catch the bus back uptown, Meg,” Barb says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It’ll be another half an hour out in the cold if we miss it.”

“Right!” Meg looks between her and Miles. “We’d better get going. Miles, it was great to see you! Jon, text me when you get home?”

Jon nods, tucking himself up against Miles’ side. “Absolutely. Let me know when you’re back safe.”

They go their separate ways, Meg and Barb to the bus stop and Jon and Miles to Jon’s apartment. The city is buzzing, but the two of them are quiet as they walk, taking in the atmosphere. It takes a while for Jon to say anything at all.

“What was Meg saying to you back there?” he asks eventually. “You seem pretty out of it.”

Miles shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “Just that she wants me to take good care of you,” he says. “She’s your friend and she wants to make sure you’re doing okay.”

Jon squints up at him, brow furrowed. “Right. Because I need you to protect me.”

“Hey, you’re the one dating a cop.” Miles shrugs. “It’s in the job description.”

By now they’re nearing Jon’s apartment, but Miles is a little reluctant to leave him. The conversation with Meg has him feeling paranoid, checking over his shoulder every now and then to make sure no one is following them. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving Jon alone when he’s apparently being threatened somehow.

Jon picks up on his uneasiness, apparently; when they reach his building, he pulls Miles just inside the doorway. “I don’t need you to protect me,” he says, maneuvering Miles up against the wall. Miles lets him. “I love you, and I want you to trust that I can take care of myself.”

He kisses Miles; Miles kisses him back, a little rougher than he might have intended; there’s a sort of nervous energy in the pit of his stomach that he can’t seem to get out of his system, a need to pull Jon so close that no one else could get to him.

Instead, he pulls away and leans his head against the wall. “Alright, Jon,” he breathes out. “I love you, and I trust you not to die while I’m walking home. Probably.”

“Your confidence is so reassuring,” Jon jokes. “I feel so much _better_ now.”

\--

Miles trips over five different cardboard boxes on his way to the kitchen. What little light can fight through the foggy morning and surrounding office buildings filters through the blinds on the windows, just barely illuminating the apartment. He stumbles into the kitchen cursing and kicking anything in his way on the floor.

Already, Jon is at the table with a cup of coffee and his tablet open as he scans for any breaking news he might have slept through. At his feet, Lizzy is digging into her breakfast. He looks up when Miles enters and smiles.

“You would think that, after so long, you would know where the boxes are,” he comments.

Miles gives him the falsest grin he can muster. “I would, if your dog didn’t move them all while I’m asleep.” He grabs a box of cereal from the cupboard and roots around for one of his bowls.

“Ah, yes, blame Lizzy. Obviously she’s moving the boxes around in a villainous attempt to break all of your toes,” Jon intones.

“You know what? Maybe she is. You don’t know her like I do, Jon.”

Jon tilts his head, brow furrowed. “That is not at all true, actually.”

Miles kisses Jon on the head on his way to his seat. Jon doesn’t look away from his tablet, devoted to his current task.

“Anything interesting happening out in the world today?” Miles asks, before shoving a giant spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“Eh.” Jon is frowning at the screen. “An apartment building downtown caught on fire last night. It will probably be our big story in the morning edition; Cole already wrote a piece about it for the website.”

“Any fatalities?”

“Not yet, but a few people are in the hospital.” Jon squints for a minute and swipes at his screen. “A robbery-homicide near the city center, one victim. Oh, and the Briggstown farmer’s market ends this weekend! We should go to that.”

“You are so good at switching gears,” Miles jokes. “We can go to the farmer’s market after I’ve found the guys responsible for killing a local business owner in the middle of the night.”

“They already know who did it,” Jon corrects him. “There was a tag at the crime scene.”

Miles groans around the cereal in his mouth. “Crew job?”

“Oh, that’s sexy,” Jon says, raising an eyebrow. “Please keep spraying me with your food.”

“Whatever you want, babe,” Miles says. He sticks out his tongue.

“I’m moving out.”

“Wasn’t this your apartment to begin with?”

“It was!” Jon exclaims. “This is my apartment, so that means _you_ have to move out.”

Miles kicks at Jon’s feet under the table. Lizzy barks in protest, sprinting from her place to glare at Miles from across the kitchen. He swallows his cereal. “So was it crew stuff, then?”

Jon nods. “Fake AH Crew, I guess. Or at least someone pretending to be them.”

They sit quietly for a while after that, Jon finishing off his coffee and Miles enjoying his breakfast. Jon eventually shuts his tablet case and places his dishes in the sink, the last steps in his morning routine before heading off to work.

“What are you working on today?” Miles asks him.

Jon leans back against the counter. “A few sources for my article are coming in from Briggstown, so I’ve got some follow-up interviews scheduled.”

“Am I allowed to know what this article is about yet?” Miles asks.

“I can’t tell you everything, but I can tell you that someone claims to know who the Mad King is,” Jon says. He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and leans in to kiss Miles goodbye. Miles dodges it, staring him down.

“You’re investigating the Vagabond, Jon?” he demands, raising an eyebrow.

“Miles,” Jon warns. “We’ve talked about this.”

“We definitely have not talked about _this_. I would remember telling you not to do it.” Miles pushes his chair back from the table. “Up until this exact moment I didn’t think it was necessary to tell you not to do this. So clearly I’ve never told you not to before.”

Jon frowns. “If I have to live my life knowing you’re running into–”

“If I were running into high-risk situations, guns blazing, I would let you finish,” Miles interrupts him. “As it is, I think there’s a difference between me collecting evidence at a crime scene and you going after one of the most prolific assassins in the tristate area.”

“I’m not going after him,” Jon corrects him. “I’m talking to someone who claims to know who he is. The truth is that they don’t, obviously, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“I don’t like this.” Miles crosses his arms, still bristling. “Is anyone else going to meet this guy?”

Jon grins. “Come on, Miles. He isn’t going to know anything. I’ll be okay. Trust me?”

It would be stupid to say no to that. Starting the day with a fight is a bad way to go, for obvious reasons. “Yeah, fine. I trust you,” Miles caves, sighing heavily. “We’re still on for that COD marathon tonight, right?”

Jon leans in and kisses Miles, still smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He grabs his keys and his bag, and he’s out the door.

Miles moves through his own morning routine, made all the more difficult now by the fact that all of his shit is packed up in cardboard boxes. Nothing in the world could make him regret moving in with Jon, but he definitely regrets owning so much stuff.

The morning is normal enough after that. Miles and Kerry are assigned a robbery right out of the gate and sent to investigate through the morning, checking the victim’s apartment for evidence. The victim seems properly disturbed over what’s happened, but he’s only missing a few gaming consoles and a stereo.

It’s a typical robbery, in the part of town known for its crime rates after dark. Chances are they won’t ever find the things that were stolen anyway, but Miles asks for any copies of serial numbers or receipts and Kerry figures out a half-decent timeline before they head back to the precinct to dig a little deeper into the case over lunch.

Before he even gets to his desk, Barb is standing in front of him. Her eyes are wide and her mascara is smeared; she looks panicked.

“You need to come with me,” she tells him, grabbing his arm.

“Why?” Miles asks. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

She shakes her head furiously, already walking backward to the lab and towing him along. “You need to come with me,” she repeats. “Please, Miles.”

Miles looks over his shoulder; Kerry is right behind him, looking just as confused as he feels. Barb has turned around and is leading them to the lab now, pushing past anyone unlucky enough to be standing in their way.

It isn’t long before they can hear someone crying from inside the lab. Miles can feel the tension rising inside of him, building up like a knot in his stomach.

“Babs?” he tries again. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. They finally walk into the lab after what feels like an eternity to find Meg sitting at the desk, a box of tissues in her lap. Chris, Aaron, and Arryn are standing around her. Miles pulls away from Barb and rushes forward, kneeling down in front of Meg. Her eyes are red and she’s bitten her lip bloody.

“What happened?” he asks, even though he already knows.

Meg shakes her head. “I’m – I’m so sorry, Miles. Jon is gone.”

He must say something, must make some kind of noise, because immediately Kerry is there at his side with a hand on his shoulder. Miles hears ringing in his ears, something like static. Meg is still talking but it takes him a minute to realize it and refocus on her words instead of the white silence in his head, the panic crawling up the back of his throat.

“He came in this morning.” Meg is fighting to get the words out, hands tearing at the tissues in her lap. “He told me he was meeting with someone for his article. He was – he said he would be back. Before three. He was going to have a draft of his article for me by the end of the day.”

Aaron has his notebook out, taking notes of the whole conversation. “What was this article he was working on? Any chance it would have gotten him in trouble?”

“It was the Fake AH Crew,” Miles says, hands curling into fists. His voice sounds hoarse. “He was looking into the Mad King today. Said a source was coming in from Briggstown.”

“He said it was going to be a dead end,” Meg says, sniffing. “He said it wasn’t going to go anywhere, but somebody – they took him. Oh, God.” She choked back a sob. “I’m sorry, Miles.”

“And he said he would be back by three?” Chris follows up, steering her back on track. “It’s only noon now. How did you know something went wrong?”

“Somebody called us,” Meg answers. She searches for her phone and pulls up an audio recording. “It’s from Jon’s phone. We’ve – we tried using its GPS to find him, but they turned it off.”

She presses play.

“Don’t come looking for your reporter,” a mechanical voice says. The person on the other end is using some kind of scrambler. “You’d better hope he knows everything he says he does about the Fake AH Crew; if he doesn’t, we’ll have to pick somebody else. Print it in your fancy newspaper: The Kings run Los Santos now.”

Miles can’t remember much after that. Everything fades to the background with the knowledge that this is real, that Jon is gone. Next thing he knows he’s in Captain Hullum’s office, being told he can take the week off while detectives Marquis and Demarais look into the case.

Back in their apartment, Miles thinks back to this morning, the robbery he knew the LSPD would never be able to solve. He looks at his phone and, without hesitating, picks it up.

Jon isn’t going to be another cold case.

\-------------

PRESENT

\-------------

Miles wakes up on the ground. His ears are ringing and his entire body aches. As his world spirals into focus he sees fire, everything lit in flickering orange and yellow. In front of him, Michael is firing his gun at an alarming rate; the noise is muffled, like the shots are going off underwater.

As if he knows he’s being watched, Michael glances over his shoulder. He’s got his mask on. Miles can’t tell if he’s said anything, or what it might have been if he did.

The ringing is slowly fading away, leaving in its place the cacophony of a warzone. The two of them are hidden behind a car that’s been tipped onto its side. Next to Miles, Ryan is lying unconscious on the ground.

Michael empties out his cartridge on whoever he’s aiming at. He ducks down to reload, locking eyes with Miles again. “You good?” he asks.

“I could use some painkillers,” Miles says. He pushes himself up off the ground to test his balance: a little unstable, but mostly fine. “What happened?”

“We walked right into a fucking booby trap, is what happened.” Michael pulls a handgun from his belt and tosses it to Miles. “They decked out one of the buildings on this street with explosives and waited to blow it until we got close.”

Michael pops up and fires off a few rounds. Miles creeps up beside him and peers over the car. One building across the street is the source of most of the chaos, flames licking at the windows. Even as he watches, one corner gives and an entire section crumbles down. Just a little farther down the street is a line of vans and more men in masks, presumably not with the FAHC.

Michael’s out of bullets again. He ducks back behind the car; Miles follows.

“The explosion threw your car across the street,” Michael continues, like he never stopped, “but me and the lads just got a little banged up. I grabbed you and Ryan and found cover before reinforcements showed up, and now here we are.”

“Where are the others?”

Michael shrugs. “We’ll probably be able to find them faster if you fucking help me shoot.”

So Miles takes the gun and helps. For a while it feels like every man they take out is replaced by two more, like this shootout is never going to end. Miles falls into the pattern of shoot, duck, reload and focuses strictly on that, hoping he can do enough to get through this.

It takes him a while to realize that Ryan has disappeared. Michael notices at about the same time, but where Miles is alarmed, he seems delighted; he starts laughing, leaning back against the undercarriage of the car.

“Oh, god,” he says, giggling. “They’re so fucked.”

Miles doesn’t get the chance to ask what he means. Within moments there’s the sound of an explosion, another bright light bursting into existence. There’s the sound of metal skidding across asphalt, and then everything goes quiet.

Next to him, Michael puts a hand to his ear and asks, “That you, Vagabond?”

“Up and to your right,” Ryan says. He waves at them from a window. He’s got a grenade launcher resting on his shoulder. “Can we just blow them all up and go back home? My head hurts.”

“So much for your murder break,” Miles says.

They both ignore him. Michael keeps a hand to his ear, probably trying to hold his earpiece together. “Hey, anybody else tuned in right now?”

Miles presses his own earpiece, hoping he’ll be able to hear a little better. For a minute there’s nothing but static, and then it crackles to life.

“We’re here,” Jack says, although her voice is tinny and quiet. “Gavin and I are scouting out the area. Rendezvous in three minutes at the explosion site and we can figure out our next move.”

Geoff’s com must be on the fritz after the explosion. His voice crackles in, mid-sentence. “-ose fucking dumbasses thought we would all be in the same car,” he whines, sounding petulant. “They think we’re _amateurs_.”

“Yeah, well, that assumption just saved our lives,” Ray tells him, “so don’t be such a bitch about it.”

“Fuck the rendezvous!” Michael stands up and kicks the empty cartridges away, loading up the remaining ammo in his jacket. “Everyone’s got a buddy, right? Let’s find the hideout and blow some shit up. Fucking _somebody_ there will be able to tell us how to find Striker.”

“Gav?” Ryan asks. “You alright?”

“Ryan, do you have a cheese grater in your house?”

Michael grabs Miles’ arm and tugs him out from behind the car. They stalk across the road, sticking close to the walls of the buildings and hiding in the shadows. The coms are a constant source of distraction, but Miles is reluctant to turn it off; if anyone finds something, he wants to know about it right away.

The road is filled with debris from the building and cars alike; a few mangled bodies were thrown by the explosion and lie in the middle of the street, motionless. Miles takes in the scene, scanning for any potential threats. It doesn’t seem like there’s anyone with them now, but it’s hard to tell. He can’t see much of anything in the dark.

“Yeah, uh,” Geoff pipes up after a moment, “the location we were given was incorrect, which means I’m gonna have to kill someone else when we get back to Los Santos. There’s nothing here but mice and roaches.”

“We’re not finding anything here either,” Jack adds, “wherever the hell “here” is.”

Michael reloads his gun as they toe their way through the remains of Ryan’s adventure. “Guess it’s up to us then, boys,” he says. Ryan has caught up to them now and falls in step beside Miles.

The street is quiet, filled only by the sounds of concrete falling as the building behind them crumbles. No one is moving but the three of them, making their slow progress across the asphalt. It occurs to Miles that they have no leads; as of right now, no one has any idea where Jon is. He could already be dead. They might have just blown their only chance to find him.

He feels himself tensing up, the panic rising in the back of his throat. He’s done so much to find Jon already; he’d do it all again in a heartbeat, if he had the chance, but he might not. His best wasn’t good enough.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” he asks, fighting back the urge to break something.

“Keep walking,” Ryan says. “When they start shooting we’ll know we’re in the right place.”

Michael apparently hadn’t noticed the Vagabond’s arrival. He looks quickly over his shoulder, and even with the mask on Miles can tell he’s grinning. “I’m kinda surprised you went for the grenade back there, Ry,” he muses. “I was hoping for a knife fight.”

“I have a headache,” Ryan says. “The faster this is all over, the faster I can go back and take some ibru- …ibuprofen.”

“First flub of the heist!” Gavin crows at them over the com. “Big words will always be your arch nemesis, Rye-bread.”

Ryan doesn’t respond. The three of them fall back into silence, stalking down the road. Miles keeps his eyes on the shadows, ready for something else to burst into flames. They make it one block from the crash site, then two; still, nothing.

“We’re never going to find him,” Miles says, giving way to his fears for just one minute. “They wouldn’t have set up a base so close to the crash.”

Michael snorts. “You don’t know crews, man,” he responds. “They thought they were gonna get us all in that explosion. Sure, they probably set it up far enough away that the warehouse wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire,” he poked his head around the corner, checking for enemies down the road, before waving them forward, “but they needed to be close enough to provide backup if it didn’t work out. Which it didn’t. Because we’re not fucking stupid.”

“They’ll have a temporary base somewhere near here,” Ryan adds. “Reinforcements are going to come from there any minute now.”

Geoff comes back in, feed full of static. “We’ll nab one of the drivers and he’ll tell us where his boss is hiding out.”

“Easy-peasy,” Ray chimes. “We’ll have Risinger back in no time.”

Miles really wants to believe them, but he doesn’t. Until a shot goes off and the bullet breaks the glass above his head.

“Get down!” he yells, diving to the ground and pulling Michael with him. Ryan rolls next to him. The three of them worm their way into a doorway, piling on top of each other.

“What’s happening?” Geoff demands.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Michael hisses. “Where are the fucking cars? Why do they have a goddamn sniper out here?” The shots keep coming, each one missing them but getting progressively closer.

Ryan smashes an elbow against a boarded up glass pane in the door a few times, pressing until it finally gives and he can reach inside and pull the door open. The three of them tumble into the room and end up spread out on the floor.

“Why do things keep going wrong?” Michael demands, immediately pushing himself up to standing. “First the whole damn thing is a trap to kill us, now their backup is a fucking sniper. We’re gonna fucking die!”

Miles crawls to the window and peers through, trying to find where the bullets are coming from. Ryan has rolled back into the doorway and is firing retaliation shots into the night air. “Geoff, Ray,” he barks out, “how fast can you get over here?”

“Uhh,” Ray says. “We might be a while.”

Miles thinks he can hear gunfire on their end, but he can barely pick it up over the sounds of the gunfight happening around him. He fires off a few shots of his own before ducking down, narrowly avoiding the barrage of bullets that comes through his window.

“We’ve got some SUVs coming toward us,” Jack says. “They’re probably our guys.”

Gavin yells something unintelligible. Something explodes. Miles tunes out the chaos of the com and focuses in on the task at hand, moving from one window to the next in an attempt to avoid the incoming fire. Ryan is still shooting from the doorway and Michael has joined him, the two firing off into the black in the hopes of hitting something.

It takes them a while to realize that the only shots being fired are their own.

“Oh my god.” Michael groans. “What are they going to do _now_?”

Miles doesn’t wait to find out. He stands still just long enough to make sure the coast is clear and then he’s climbing out of the window and into the street, headed toward the building where the sniper was hiding. His com erupts into a chorus of confused screaming, probably everyone telling him not to be an idiot. He tears it out and tosses it on the ground, determined to catch the fucker before he gets away.

If this guy knows anything at all about Jon, Miles is going to find it out. He doesn’t have a choice. This is all going to end tonight, and he’ll make sure it ends the way he wants it to.

Without his earpiece in, the world is much quieter. He can hear someone running down the fire escape. He sprints around the corner, hoping against hope that it’s the right way and he can finally do something to fix this mess.

Someone is in the alley with him. They’re running in the opposite direction. Miles holds his pace steady, gradually gaining ground. At the end of the alleyway is a motorcycle; Miles tackles the sniper before he can get to it. He rolls him over and presses his arms to the ground.

“Where are you going?” Miles asks, breathing heavily. “I just need to ask you a couple questions.”

The guy shakes his head. “Won’t get anything out of me!” he insists. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Maybe not,” and Miles’ thoughts are racing so fast he’s surprised he can maintain any kind of conversation, “but you should be scared of the other two who were with me. They’re gonna be here any second, and I’d hate for you to find out what Mogar and the Vagabond would do to someone who tried to kill them.”

Miles sees the flash of recognition in the guy’s eyes, feels the way he stiffens up. “I’m not telling you anything,” he says again, sounding uncertain.

The sound of footsteps echo down the alley. Michael and Ryan are there now, slowing down with the realization that Miles has the situation mostly under control. Their pace is slow and, Miles hopes, vaguely menacing.

The sniper’s eyes flicker over to them before returning to Miles. He seems to make up his mind right then, gritting his teeth and grinding out, “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me where the base is,” Miles says, “and I’ll let you go.”

“There’s a hideout,” the guy says, looking toward Michael and Ryan again. He’s starting to squirm, clearly anxious to get away. “The boss is there, at–” Ryan reaches for his belt, pulling out something small. Miles guesses it’s a knife. “It’s – it’s the packaging plant on 33rd and Wells, on the north side of the city,” the sniper finishes, words pouring out in a rush. “Just – let – lemme go!” he demands, practically writhing beneath Miles.

Miles rolls off the guy and lets him go. He makes it about three steps before Ryan gets him, a knife directly in the back. He arches up onto his toes, gasping, and then crumples to the ground.

“Nice shot Ryan!” Michael praises, sounding legitimately impressed. “Is he dead?”

Ryan shrugs. “Probably not, but he will be soon.” He marches over and yanks the knife out of the guy’s back, wiping it off on his sleeve. “Fucking snipers. No offense, Ray.”

Michael tosses something to Miles. It’s his earpiece. “Pull that shit again and we won’t help you, dumbass,” he says.

“Yeah, alright.” Miles puts the com back on and the noisy chatter of the crew washes back over him. “I did get a location for us, though.”

“Great!” Jack responds. “We have transportation.”

Michael groans. “Please tell me Gavin isn’t driving.”

“No way we’d let him do that,” Ray answers back. “We’ll be there to pick you up in five.”

Miles eyes the motorcycle. Five minutes is a lot of time, something they can’t exactly waste any more of. Eventually Striker’s going to notice that none of his men have come back to celebrate.

“I would tell you not to even think about it, but I’m guessing you already have,” Ryan says, interrupting his thoughts. “If you go in by yourself you’re going to be in some serious trouble.”

“We’re already in serious trouble,” Miles responds, walking to the bike. “Any minute now, they’re going to realize we aren’t dead. Who knows what they’ll do to Jon when that happens?”

“What’s the address?” Geoff asks, sounding annoyed. “If you’re not going to give us directions inside the car we’re going to need to know.”

“33rd and Wells. North side of town.” Miles swaps out his mask for the bike helmet and turns the keys in the ignition. It rumbles to life and he kicks up the stand. “You guys can meet me there.”

He takes off, and a part of him thinks that this is just like every action movie he ever loved as a kid. Going rogue to dismantle some bad guys and save his love interest, or something, racing off on his own for some big heroic action that will be remembered by everyone forever. If it weren’t for the way his heart is racing in his chest, he might even be excited about it.

And while his adrenaline is running high, all of his energy is dedicated to worrying about Jon. It was hard enough to believe he was going to be okay before; now, knowing it’s all been a trap, it’s nearly impossible for Miles to think they would keep him alive and well.

He isn’t being careful. He doesn’t have time. When he has to make turns, he cuts corners; red lights don’t stop him, and neither does traffic. The bike weaves in and out through every obstacle and Miles hopes to god this won’t be what kills him, after all of this, reckless driving down city streets on the way to his final destination.

The packaging plant is almost impossible to miss. It stands between two office buildings, lights still on even at the late hour, and two men are leaning on either side of the entrance. Miles parks his bike but doesn’t remove his helmet, waiting to see what they’ll say.

“Hey, Freddie!” one of them calls out. “Leave your rifle at the scene again? Bossman isn’t gonna like that too much.”

Alright, so his name is Freddie now. Miles slides off the bike but doesn’t remove his helmet, hoping no one will ask any questions.

“You having a rough night, Fred?” the other guard asks. “Got a nice new shiner ruining that pretty face of yours?”

He might even be right. Miles doesn’t know; after the car crash, the shootout, and fighting Freddie, he could have any number of scrapes or bruises on his face. He grunts and makes his way toward the door; one of the guards holds a hand up to his chest.

“Whoa there, buddy,” he says. “We can’t just let you in, you know that. Let’s have you take off that visor and tell us the password, huh?”

Miles did not come all this way to be stopped by two lackeys with a password. He steps back and holds up both of his hands. “Fellas,” he says, “we’re all friends here!”

“Hey,” the first guard says, reaching for his belt. “That doesn’t fucking sound like–”

Before he can finish the thought, Miles rushes forward and slams both of their heads against the brick wall. They sag to the ground, unconscious. Miles walks past them, pushing through the door and into the plant.

Over the com, he hears Michael whistle. “Dude, that sounded so _badass._ ”

There’s no cover inside the door; anyone could see him walking around, if they were paying attention. He doesn’t think they are, though, so he ducks behind a stack of boxes and takes off the helmet, hoping no one will pay him any mind.

If he hadn’t known this was a crew base before, he would now. The room is full of people and the machines are churning out one cardboard box after another. Each one is being filled with paper packages of some kind somewhere down the line. Miles doesn’t have to open one to figure out its contents.

“The Briggstown PD could have a field day with this,” Miles mutters into his com.

Ray laughs. “Do you think they’d thank us for burning the whole place down?”

“Probably not,” Jack answers, “but that doesn’t mean we won’t do it.”

A few stacks of boxes are placed near the perimeter of the plant, probably ready for shipping. Miles lurks around behind them, reporting everything he sees back to the crew. “Looks like there are forty, maybe fifty men on the ground floor. There’s a catwalk above me and a handful of supervisors are patrolling it. There might be an office or something up there. Should I check it out?”

“Don’t do anything yet, Miles,” Jack says. “We should be there in just a minute.”

Gavin is screaming so loudly it sounds like he might be dying. Miles assumes this means they’re breaking all kinds of traffic laws. Not for the first time that night, he wonders exactly where the BPD is dedicating their time.

“We’ll create a distraction on the ground floor,” Geoff tells him. “You can sneak up there and do what you need to do then.”

It can’t be too much longer before something goes wrong again. Someone will notice that the guards out front or unconscious, or that Freddie hasn’t come back from his assignment, or that everyone who went downtown seems to be missing in action.

“Don’t take too long,” Miles says, moving along the wall toward a staircase. “We don’t have much time.”

He isn’t exactly sure what to expect when Geoff says “distraction.” That could mean literally anything, especially looking at the history of the FAHC.

And then.

“Punch it, Jack!” Michael yells.

Miles hears gunshots, both over the com and from inside the packaging plant. Everyone stops what they’re doing, glancing around in alarm. Miles’ com erupts into complete chaos, and then two cars break through the brick wall of the back entrance.

By the time the dust has settled, the Fake AH Crew has rolled out of their cars and started firing. Miles dives under a few of the fallen boxes to avoid the crossfire. As he watches, everyone in the plant shifts their focus to the intruders, guns at the ready.

Except for one man.

He wasn’t there before, Miles knows. He came out when the cars broke through, stepping out from the shadows like some kind of fucking ghost. Now, with the knowledge of what’s going on, he returns back to where he came from.

“Found you, motherfucker,” Miles mutters.

No one responds over the com. They’re busy with their own business. Miles digs out of his hiding place and hurries up the stairs, his anxiety morphing almost immediately into anger as he nears the one who took Jon.

“Ray!” Miles snaps, looking out over the catwalk. There are a few men still standing, all busy shooting down below. “I’m on the catwalk. Can you cover me?”

“ _Can I cover you_ ,” Ray mocks. “Of course I can.” As if on cue, the man nearest to Miles drops down, a neat bullet hole bleeding between his eyes.

“Fantastic,” Miles says. He runs across the bridge, watching as each supervisor notices him and, in turn, ends up dead. When he has the chance, Miles takes out some of the men on the ground floor, but he focuses most of his energy on getting across the floor to the room where Striker is, where Jon might be.

When he slams the door open, the first thing he sees Striker’s back. The second thing he sees is Jon, strapped to a chair with duct tape over his mouth. Striker jumps to face Miles, brandishing a gun; Miles holds his own weapon steady in front of him.

Jon is alive; the relief is almost overwhelming. He’s bruised and bleeding from a cut in his forehead, and his eyes look a little hazy, but he’s still breathing and that’s more than Miles could have hoped to find.

“Now let’s everybody stay calm,” Striker says, immediately situating himself behind Jon. His voice is deep and almost slimy, and his grin reminds Miles of a lizard, pointed and sharp. His gun is pressed to Jon’s forehead. “No need to be hasty here.”

“I’m actually running pretty behind schedule,” Miles says. “There is absolutely every need to be hasty.”

“Surely,” Striker says, moving his free hand to grip Jon’s shoulder, “we can make some kind of _deal_. I only wanted information anyway.”

Jon shakes his head vehemently, hair falling into his face. He sounds like he’s trying to say something through the tape over his mouth. Miles fights back the urge to rush forward and grab him, to do _something_ to save him.

“What do you want?” Miles spits out. The gunfire outside continues on, but his com has fallen eerily silent. The crew is listening as best they can to the whole thing.

Striker hasn’t stopped smiling. “You aren’t one of them,” he says. “Who are you? What allegiances do you have in this pointless gang war? You could walk away from it all, with your friend here.”

Ray comes in through the com. “I’ll have a shot for you in a second, Luna. Keep him talking.”

“What do you _want_?” Miles demands again, hoping that his grin looks more like a grimace.

“I want names,” Striker says. “I want the names of everyone in the Fake AH Crew. Addresses. Their main weapons suppliers. Anything you can give me that this one,” he nudges the nuzzle of his gun to Jon’s temple, “hasn’t given me already.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Ray says.

Miles heaves a deep breath, lowering his gun. Jon starts shaking his head with renewed force, legs kicking at their restraints. Miles avoids making eye contact with him. “Okay,” he says.

Striker barks out a laugh. And then he crumples to the ground.

“You owe me, man!” Ray says. “That was an _amazing_ shot. I’m amazing, holy shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Miles says, hurrying forward to pull off Jon’s restraints. “I’ll wipe your pictures from the system when I get back to the precinct or something.”

Jon winces when Miles pulls off the duct tape. “Who are you talking to?” he asks. “What’s going on?”

Miles has never been happier to hear anyone’s voice in his entire life. He cups Jon’s face in his hands, smiling even as he can feel the tears building in the corners of his eyes, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “No one and nothing,” he says. “I’m taking you home.”

Ray pretends to barf over the com. Miles ignores him.

\--

Their apartment is a lot quieter when they come home. Jon spends a lot of those first few days sleeping. Even when he is awake, he doesn’t say much, mostly preferring to sit in silence with Miles and Lizzy there. Miles requested a few more days off work to stay home with him, just to make sure he’s okay.

The doctors said there are no severe injuries. A few scrapes and a couple bruised ribs, but nothing that rest can’t heal. The primary side effects they’re worried about are less physical and more mental, specifically related to stress; Miles can understand that well enough.

Barb is the first one to visit, bringing a card she and the boys signed for Jon. She lightens things up a bit, telling jokes that make Jon laugh. It’s nice to have someone else there for a little while, but then she leaves and it’s just the two of them again, and Miles isn’t quite sure what to say to get Jon laughing around him again.

It turns out he doesn’t have to, because Jon breaks the silence first.

“I’m not giving up my job over this,” he says, sitting up against the headboard on their bed. “I know you were right when you said it was dangerous and I know this is my fault anyway but I’m – I’m not going to stop reporting important things because this happened.”

Miles wants to fight back, at first. The thought of losing Jon again, so soon after it’s happened once, brings a wave of anxiety crashing over his system. But then Jon grabs his hand and pulls him onto the bed, curling up onto his chest.

“I’ll be more careful about it,” he promises. “I’ll bring someone with me to sketchy interviews, if I have to. But I won’t give it up.”

And Miles doesn’t exactly have a leg to stand on anymore, because anything Jon has done, he’s done worse. So he nods, pets at Jon’s hair, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Okay.”

\--

And then Meg visits.

This in itself wouldn’t be an issue. The issue comes in the form of two men standing behind her, one holding flowers and the other chocolates.

“My boys wanted to come along and wish Jon well,” Meg says, apparently oblivious to the way Miles’ jaw has hit the floor. “Gav, Ry, this is Miles; he’s the boyfriend Jon is always going on about.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Ryan says, and Miles would know that voice _anywhere_. Without the mask and the face paint, he looks like a totally normal guy; he’s even swapped out his leather jacket for a gray sweatshirt and a beanie. He’s grinning ridiculously.

Gavin holds out the chocolates. “We brought sweets for your boy!” he exclaims. “There are probably enough for you to have some, as well.”

“Is Jon up?” Meg asks, standing on her toes in an effort to see over Miles’ shoulder. It doesn’t work. “We can leave if he isn’t, but I’d like to see him.”

Miles almost wants to tell her that she can come back when she’s alone and doesn’t have two high-grade criminals tailing behind her. Instead he’s thwarted by Jon entering the living room.

“Meg!” he calls out.

Miles steps out of the way, letting Meg into the apartment. He holds up a hand to stop Gavin and Ryan at the threshold.

“Does she know what you do?” he demands, keeping his voice low. “I knew you all kept an eye on Jon. I didn’t know you were dating his boss.”

“What, Turney?” Gavin asks, sounding confused. “Why would we tell a reporter what we do? That’d just be bad business.”

Ryan nods. “It’s really just better for everyone if she never finds out.”

Jon notices them then and walks over, wrapping his arms around Miles’ waist. “Hi guys,” he says, smiling wide. “I didn’t realize you knew how to leave your house.”

“Well it was a long and perl- perilous journey,” Ryan retorts, “but when we heard what happened, we found the front door and made our way to you, post-haste.”

\--

Things get better.

Time passes. Jon goes back to work and Miles does, too. A lengthy article delving into the history of the FAHC hits the newsstands one day and no one even bats an eye. The Briggstown Kings die out, or maybe Striker is replaced, Miles doesn’t care; he’s got Jon back home with him, and that’s what matters.

“How did you manage to find me, anyway?” Jon asks once, when they’re washing the dishes together in the kitchen.

Miles shrugs. “I called in a few favors. There were some guys in town who were willing to help.”

“That’s all?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow. “A few good cops willing to put on some masks and hijack a crew, all for me?”

“Who says they were cops?” he shoots back, grinning.

Jon tilts his head to the side. “You _wouldn’t_ ,” he says.

“You’re a reporter,” Miles says, focusing on the plate in his hands. “Go investigate it or something.”

Jon laughs and shakes his head, grabbing the plate from Miles to dry it. “Thank you for doing whatever the hell you actually did,” he says.

“Anytime,” Miles replies easily. And then he realizes exactly what he’s just said. “That is _not_ permission for you to go around getting kidnapped again, Risinger, don’t you fucking pull that shit. I will kill you.”

“I love you too, Miles."

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://mysblink.tumblr.com) is a great way to talk to me if you want to yell about AUs and the FAHC and Risingluna. I'll cry, promise.
> 
> Been working on this since December. Goddamn. Longest fic I've written in ages, which is not saying much. Idea comes from [a post on Tumblr](http://elysewillcms.tumblr.com/post/140000000497), sort of, and a LOT of text messages I sent to Jaz immediately after seeing said post. It ends with foorehead kisses so I thought "Risingluna?" and died inside. That's the whole story.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Jaz verself, who lets me rant about AUs for literal days on end and even listens when I whine about how much I hate writing (even though I kind of probably don't actually hate it at all).


End file.
